


30 Days of You & I

by TimmyJaybird



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, The whole thing is just a wild ride, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:44:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 26,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 30 day challenge from Tumblr, of course all dedicated to our number one dysfunctional couple!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: First

**Author's Note:**

> This 30 day challenge can be found on batjokes.tumblr.com hosted by the awesome AlexTuesday. I originally was going to pass on it, as it overlaps with the Batman/Joker week I'm hosting in Feb., but then decided why the hell not, I really wanted to participate! I may just put it on hiatus during that week, _or_ upload two a day once in a while. Either way, by the end, we'll have 30 random little ficlits.

Bruce felt the warm summer rain pelting against his suit. The air was thick, humid, made it hard to breathe- at least, he wanted it to be the air that made it hard to breathe.

The bleeding body at his feet, he didn’t want it to be that. He didn’t want that to stop his heart.

He crouched down, ran his fingers over the Joker’s dirty coat- mud, blood, God only knows what caked onto the purple fabric. He pulled it away, looked at the tears in his shirt, the blood still oozing up. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here, but the amount of blood meant this hadn’t happened seconds ago. The trails of blood in the mud told Bruce he’d been moving for quite some time- heading somewhere, somewhere Bruce didn’t know, to patch himself up-

Or die in peace.

Bruce tore his shirt open, watched his chest rise and fall in his shallow breaths. There were fewer and fewer per minute. His chest and stomach had a number of stab wounds, Bruce didn’t want to count them. Didn’t have the time. As it was, he was afraid to move him- he didn’t know what other damage had been done, where else he might be injured. But calling for help, it wouldn’t get there in time, he doubted it. Not in the middle of the night- not when it was just the Joker. He’d bleed out before he was saved.

Bruce tore his cape from its clasps, gingerly wrapped it around the body, moving him very carefully. The man groaned, but his eyes stayed closed. Satisfied that he might be able to keep some filth from the wounds, and that nothing was broken, Bruce scooped him up, cradled him close to his chest. He was light, he’d never been heavy, but Bruce had never imagined he’d be so easy to hold, that he’d seem to fit so perfectly in his arms. He moved a little as Bruce began to make the trek to the Batmobile, pressed his head against Bruce’s chest, smeared mostly washed off make-up on the black Kevlar and mumbled something.

Bruce arranged him carefully, then climbed in himself and sped off in the summer night, making a call to Alfred and telling him he was bringing the Joker in, that he needed him patched up. Alfred gave him a startled pause, then simply said, “Yes, sir,” and the line was dead.

When he carried him into the cave, the world seemed to slow down around him. Bruce could barely tell the man was breathing, wasn’t sure if he’d even make it to the table, if there was anything Alfred could do. His heart was slamming against his ribs, but his mind wasn’t responding. It felt blank, and all he could do was stare down at those wet, tussled green curls.

On his last look down before he set him on the table, those too green eyes were open at staring at him- placid and calm, as if accepting that if it ended here, it ended here. But they stared right into Bruce with a sort of burning warmth, and a small smile crept onto those red lips, before they closed again.

Bruce took little part in the actual process of stitching him up. He pulled his cape and the man’s ruined clothes away from his chest, helped Alfred clean him up so he could see. He hooked the IV up, but after that Alfred shooed him away so he could work, and Bruce was to slump into a chair, pull his dirty gauntlets off, and toss them to the floor.

When Alfred was finally done, Bruce was fading in and out of consciousness. He was exhausted, and even in his suit and mask, his body was about to shut down. Alfred rested a hand on his shoulder, urged him to get some sleep, he would watch over the man, but Bruce refused. He had to be the one. He had to be the one, in case he didn’t make it. He had to be there, be the last.

Alfred said nothing, only stared at him with concerned, all knowing eyes, and left him to his watch. Bruce sat by the table, held the Joker’s cold hand, ran his fingers over the knuckles. He was having trouble breathing, like outside in the rain, but now he couldn’t blame the air. His mask, perhaps. His fingers itched to take it off, but he knew better. Knew he couldn’t compromise his identity just because he wanted to stare into those green eyes and watch them take in who he was beyond the mask- not Bruce Wayne, but not Batman, just the nameless man with a tired face.

Bruce leaned his head down on his arm on the table, closed his eyes, listened to the man breathe. His consciousness ceased briefly, he swam in a dark, dreamless sleep, until something was threading in with his fingers, squeezing them. He opened his eyes, lifted his head, saw a pair of green eyes staring back. He looked at his hand, saw the Joker had tangled their fingers together, was holding it tightly- tight like a lost child finally found. Tight like one who has almost lost everything.

Bruce looked back at those eyes. Endless, deep beneath the initial layer of hypnotic green, he could drown in them. He swallowed the lump in his throat, felt his chest tightening. He could have never seen them again. He could have been forced to live with their beauty only in memory- never see the sparkle in them from laughter, the glint that showed just how quickly the mind behind them worked.

He squeezed the hand in his back, realized just how much he would hate a reality without this man. His sickness, his twisted clarity, how he _completed_ Bruce. If he died, Bruce was sure a part of him would have died with him, would have shriveled up on itself and just accepted the end of its existence.

And, as Bruce continued to stare into those green eyes wordlessly, stroking the Joker’s knuckles with his thumb, he realized for the first time just how deep under his skin this man was, how much he meant to Bruce at the end of it all.


	2. Day 2: Just for You

It’s raining, but then, is there a night in Gotham when it doesn’t? Heavy and cold, October rain straight from some sort of deity above that laughs as he spills his drink on the garbage city below. The lights flicker like candles, and the Joker just stares ahead of him, into the dark eyes that he knows far too intimately.

There aren’t words for those eyes, there never have been. Years the Joker has stared into them, with that damn cowl and without, and he’s never had the word for him. Deep and boiling and dark like the very pit of the ocean’s belly.

He doesn’t know what he’s done this time- he doesn’t remember, honestly. Something to spark the Bat, something to bring fire to those eyes. The fire of death, not the fire of lust he can incite just as easily. There was a bomb at the bank, but he’s pretty sure that never went off- the one down in that hipster coffee shop was disarmed-

“A bus,” Batman growls, seeing the mind behind those eyes churning. “Full of kids. You blew it sky high.”

“Ah, right right right,” the Joker said, tapping his chin. _Right_. He sees the fire explode, and he turns, running through the rain at top speed along the roof. He knows the Bat is behind him, chasing him. He’s always chasing, even when he has the clown pinned with his legs around his waist, he’s still chasing him somehow. Chasing through his veins and bone, into the marrow, looking for the core that makes him tick.

If he’d open his eyes and look in the mirror, he’d see it.

The Joker sees the ledge of the roof and steadies his breathing, leaps and lands on the next. It’s a practiced move, one he’s had to hone to keep things interesting, to keep away from the Bat when the game hasn’t gotten far enough for them to disrobe. That’s how it goes. He does something terrible, he runs, he’s caught, he gives, Bruce takes, he leaves again- Because Bruce won’t let him stay. If he would, maybe it’d be different. Maybe they’s skip steps. Maybe he wouldn’t do something terrible, he’d just be caught without running and give and let Bruce _take and take and take_ until he has nothing left to give and he gives that nothing too.

He sees the next gap and makes it as well, laughs as he hears Bats make it a second later. He dares to look back, sees that cape fluttering, those eyes, and think it will be a long chase before the murder has seeped out of them.

He looks back and readies for the third jump, leaps. His foot slips on the wet concrete in that last moment, and his momentum is cut drastically. He extends a little, reaches frantically, before he plummets down to the alleyway below. He smacks the fire escape on his way down, feels bones snap and crack in one arm, before he meets the ground with a sick wet sort of sound, and lays crumpled, unmoving.

The world’s a spiral of agony and black, of wet and cold, and he hears the sound of boots thudding, feels hands on his body, someone muttering his name in a broken mantra over and over and over again. His eyes flutter open and he sees that mask, those eyes, and the fire is gone.

“Fuck,” the Bat gasps, a broken sort of sound, and he runs his hands along the Joker’s side- feels broken ribs, can feel one protruding through the skin. His legs are bent inhumanly. “Move,” he whispers, but the Joker can’t. His spine has snapped.

He tries to breathe, but it’s just a wheeze. His hair is getting matted, sticky, as Bruce tries to cradle it, and he wonders if the clown can even hear him in there.

“Dammit, why!” he growls, the anger returning, “Why did you run! Why did you always run!” He holds him helplessly, feels his labored breaths, stares down into those eyes as the light begins to fade.

“Ran...you...” the words are broken, tiny little gasps, and Bruce leans down closer.

“What?” he asks, the words coming out a broken sob now. His cheeks are wet, from the rain, from tears, from the anger and the hatred leaking from his very being.

“I did it,” he says, licking his lips one more time, “just for you.”

Bruce holds him tightly as those eyes grow glossy and blank. He shakes and wants to crush the Joker’s bones into dust and shower it over himself, keep the man alive inside him forever. Instead the rain washes over them, dilutes the blood on the pavement into a pinkish watercolor, and Bruce just wants to take him home and keep him there forever.

If he had done that, just for him, maybe, _just maybe_ he could have stopped chasing.


	3. Day 3: Mutual Goal

They both wanted the same thing. They wanted to forget, to escape, to leave the rotting shell that was Gotham behind and find something purer, find something untainted by smog and greed and blood. They wanted to forget who and what they were.

It was slow, the forgetting. The Joker would lose his jacket and the color of the city faded, Bruce was tug off a gauntlet and the skyscrapers blended in with the sky. Each piece drained color from the backdrop that was Gotham, each piece took with it a memory of a face or a speech, until they were naked and it was all a tumult of feelings and faces and pavement covered in pooled blood. They knew it was there, but they could forget why.

Bruce let his lips crash into the Joker’s, and saw Jason’s face, felt his body, bloody and beaten and _lifeless_ in his arms. The Joker hooked his arms around Bruce’s neck and saw a cold cell in Arkham, dim and damp and the promise of misery. They kissed and tangled until they were gone, until they could forget that the other was the cause, the other was at fault, the other- always the other.

Bruce flipped the Joker onto his stomach for the initial thrust- he couldn’t look at his face, couldn’t stand to see Jason in those eyes, to see the countless lives he’d taken over the years, the way he’d destroyed the city. But the city begged for destruction, it was in her bones now and she craved it. No matter how Bruce pushed, she pushed back, drove him deeper into this dark place where he needed the clown to forget for a few blissful breaths, where he could hold him and be _in_ him instead of in Gotham.

The Joker groaned, he _always_ groaned, always pushed his body back against Bruce, begged silently with those hips that so enticed. And Bruce gave because he didn’t know how to say no, didn’t know a world where he didn’t let the clown take everything from him. Didn’t want to know a world where he couldn’t be a part of that flesh.

He pulled him up, pressed his back to the man’s chest and rocked their hips sweetly together. The sky was gone, the buildings were gone, but there was still a set of hauntingly blue eyes in his head, rimmed red with blood, wondering how he could do such a thing. And a voice, faint, one he had known once, but the deeper he was inside that body, the less he knew, the further into his past it seemed to claw from.

The Joker called to him, sweetly, in a broken voice reserved solely for him, for the nights when Gotham was too much and he needed something simpler, the feeling of flesh on flesh, of muscle and bone moving in perfect harmony for him. He responded, not with words but with a mumbled sound as his lips pressed to the clown’s neck. He hurt, deep inside his core, a stabbing ache that Bruce could never put a name or a face to. Jason, part of it had a name, _Jason Jason Jason_ , but that wasn’t all of it. A child broken in his parents’ blood, it has a face, but there was more.

He pulled away just to turn the Joker around and press into him again, to see his face and the bitter sweet contortions he caused. The roll of his eyes, the flutter of blonde eye lashes, the pull of his scars as his jaw dropped open from time to time, or he _smiled_.

Bruce kissed the scars, sucked on them like he could pull the agony from the Joker’s core. He knew he wasn’t the only one that hurt. Knew there was something dark and twisted inside that man that pulsed with every breath he took, send tendrils of anguish down to his toes and fingertips.

Every thrust of his body released some of it, let it seep out through the Joker’s pores and into the night air, rise as an invisible steam to the stars where it could fall over Gotham again as a blanket, where it could sink into the pavement and _become_ the city’s anguish.

The Joker clung to him when he neared the end. He clung like a lover, arms wound loosely around his shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck. He mumbled his mantra of Bats and Bruce and _baby_ until it was just a mess of unhinged sounds.

That was Bruce’s favorite part, when words failed them both and the Joker just cracked open and everything rushed out in those sounds, the babble that wasn’t laughter nor words nor moans but just something _pure_. Bruce would kiss him and drink it down and press into his core for more.

The Joker came undone first. _He always did_. It was a rule, a law. Bruce wanted to see it, wanted to feel it, wanted to know he caused for a moment the complete destruction of the clown, left him to pick the pieces up. Except he’d forget _why_ he wanted to destroy him- he’d see a faceless boy with no name and no story and he’d think _this doesn’t matter anymore_.

When he finally let go, when he held the Joker in his arms and felt him quake and felt scars bleeding their existence into his skin, Gotham wasn’t even a memory. It was just _gone_ \- the city and the people and the hate and the blood. Even that faceless boy was gone, faded into the white that overtook Bruce’s existence for precious few seconds.

The fall back to reality hurt more and more every time. Bruce would crash back and wonder how he hadn’t broken his bones, how he could still breathe. He’d cling tighter to that body in the hopes of finding paradise again- the sweet nothing that was at the core of their everything. But slowly the city would catch him, the sounds and smells and the chill that was ever present in the air. And at the center of it all, a boy with a face and a name and a story.

He never knew exactly what the Joker buried in his core, no matter how many times he felt it inside his body. Something was hot and slick and pulsing inside his belly, something that drove him to Bruce just as he was driven to the Joker. Something was there begging to be forgotten forever, but clung with the fear of what lay within the nothingness of nonexistence.

As the steam rose into the thick air, the Joker pressed Bruce down to the rooftop, tangled their fingers together and pressed his hands to the sides of his heads, closing in to stare into his dark eyes. Bruce just stared back, watched those pupils expand for him, until it was too much and the Joker’s mouth was pressing to his again, searching for another moment in paradise. Bruce would give it without being asked- he’d take it without asking. Tonight the withdrawal was too much, and he needed another hit.

They both wanted the same thing, as they entangled and the Joker moved atop his hips, his cries loud and free, ripped straight from his vocal cords. They always wanted the same thing, no matter the night, the place, the beginning and the end of their debauchery.

They just wanted to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being a bit more Jason centered than I meant, but I'm not upset over that. Considering I had very little plan going in, I'm actually pretty happy with the outcome.


	4. Day 4: Break Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not thrilled with this, but eh. I guess I might be having an off day. Oh well!

He’s shaking as he fists his hand in Bruce’s jacket, throws it at him and smacks him in the chest. He glares from carefully done eyes- green against the shady black he’d worked hard to actually make look _neat_.

“Just fucking go,” he spat, head jerking towards the door of the tiny room- one of his many fixed up one-room hideouts in the old abandoned apartments of Gotham. They were a favorite.

Bruce opened his mouth to speak, then closed it in a tight line, glaring back at the clown. He threw his jacket on, reached up and rubbed against the lipstick stain that had sent the clown off. A pearly pink, most obviously not the man’s shade.

“I don’t see why you’re so pissed,” he finally said, taking a step closer instead of heading for the door. “You know I have an image to keep. I can’t very well be a playboy if I don’t go on _dates_.”

“You don’t have to fuck _every single one_ of them!” The Joker closed the gap, jabbed his finger against Bruce’s chest. “You’re lying to yourself Brucie boy if you think you only do it for your image. You _like_ it. You like the endless sea of cunts you seem to swim in.” He shoved him back, a fire building red hot in those eyes. “You like how absolutely _filthy_ you can be with them Bruce. What do they do that I don’t?” He closed the gap again, got right in his face. “Hmmm? Thought I was about the filthiest Gotham had, but maybe I could learn a trick or two from a little _rich bitch_.”

Bruce shoved him back, wanting space to breath. The Joker stumbled, growled, went to stalk over and Bruce crashed a fist into his jaw. He stumbled back, fell onto the little bed he kept under the single partially boarded up window. He started laughing, shaking with it, as he straightened up but stayed sitting.

“That’s right _Batsss_ ,” he hissed, “you let it out the only way you know. They don’t let you hit them, do they? Why, I bet if you so much as scratched too hard those little things _scream_.” The Joker wiped his mouth on his sleeve, smeared lipstick and blood from his now split lip onto the fabric. “So what’s the allure, Brucie babe? What’s so much better about _them_.”

“I have to-“

“Bullshit and you fucking know it!” He jerked up, crossed the room. “You don’t _have_ to do it all the time. If you fucked one here and there, I’d understand-“

“You fuck Harley,” Bruce spat, and the Joker raised one delicate eyebrow.

“I did, yeah. But it’s, ah, been _months_. She stopped believing the lie Bruce, she didn’t need it anymore. The only one that needs the lie now is you.”

Bruce stepped back, slumped against the wall, let the Joker pin him there. He looked up through his lashes, almost couldn’t stand to drown in those eyes.

“So now what?” he muttered, reaching a hand up to fiddle with a button on the Joker’s shirt.

“Tell me the _truth_.” It was a plea, Bruce could see it in those eyes, and his chest tightened up.

“Yeah,” Bruce said, “Yeah...we had sex. We went to a quiet dinner and then back to her place. No flare, no publicity.” The Joker clicked his tongue.

“And then you came to see _me_.” He pushed Bruce’s hand off his chest. “I don’t want someone’s _leftovers_ Bruce. You’re mine. This...this is all done.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I won’t-can’t...can’t do this anymore. Go back to your girls and your cowl and chasing me and _wanting me dead_.” He stepped back, seperated them, put up an invisible wall taht Bruce could feel. “I’ll go back to _hating_ you.”

Bruce wanted to say something, wanted to scream at him no. No, he couldn’t do that. _He couldn’t leave Bruce_. He didn’t have that say. _He_ was the one that started this, _he_ was the one who first kissed Bruce, who first asked for his affection. He didn’t have the right!

“You can’t leave me,” Bruce finally said, and the Joker just stared at him.

“Honey, I just did.”

Bruce struck out, grabbed his shirt, pulled him in, crashed their mouths together violently. The Joker tried to pull away and Bruce held him steady, until he melted and responded, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s neck and biting at his lips. Bruce let him, until those teeth clamped down playfully on his tongue, and he pulled back.

“That hurt.”

“You deserve it,” the Joker mumbled, pressing agaisnt him. “I should make you _bleed_ , lambchop.” He rested his forehead against Bruce’s. “Things have to, ah, change, sugar.”

“I know.” Bruce held him tightly around his waist. “I know.”

“No more girls. No more dates. None of that. Fake finding God for all I care, but _no more_.” He tangled a hand in Bruce’s hair. “You _belong_ to me, Bruce. All of you. The Bat, the playboy, the broken child in you-“ He leaned in, cheek to cheek, breathing into his ear, “it’s all mine.”

Bruce heard murder in those words- threats, blood and fire and he wasn’t sure if it was his or the city if he said no. Honestly, he didn’t want to. He needed the madman, no matter how much he wanted to think he didn’t. He needed him like the air he breathed.

He kissed him again, felt the Joker dragged his lips along his mouth, then his jawline, his neck- smearing trails of red to replace the single smudge of pearly pink. Reminding Bruce that there was no other shade for him but _red_.


	5. Day 5: Memory

His hands run along the Joker’s side, but there’s no feeling in that touch. It’s the step that always comes next, once his jacket and vest and shirt are gone. Next he’ll help him squirm from his pants, toss his shoes aside, strip him of every bit of clothing and then run those unfeeling hands over his thighs.

The Joker’s stomach flips in a wave of nausea as Bruce does exactly that, touches but doesn’t feel, stares but doesn’t see. He presses his lips inside one milky thigh, and they feel like cold, dead worms, not living flesh. The Joker tastes bile in the back of this throat.

It hadn’t always been like this. There had been life once, what felt like eons ago. The Joker could close his eyes and remember a time where Bruce would rip his clothing from his body, toss it away and run his hands along his sides in marvel of the scarred, pale skin, the lean muscle there. The very build of the man who drove him _insane_. Heat had crackled from his fingertips, drove sparks of life into the Joker, made him writhe and whimper against those hands as they traced the rest of his body, clothed and non, as his mouth would stay busy as he fumbled with his pants, desperate to remove them, desperate to have skin flush to skin.

The Joker’s eyes snapped open as Bruce effortlessly flipped him onto his belly, entered him roughly. He stifled a groan, felt his body burning, muttered a curse at Bruce for not giving him a little hand in making this easier. He forced his eyes close again, against the noxious rock of Bruce’s hips to his, remembered a time where he’d cum well before the Dark Knight was ever inside him fully, when Bruce wanted him to scream _so many times_ before that final performance. A time when his body was something to be worshiped, when Bruce wanted to press his mouth to every scar and learn its story, to suck the memories from the sweet marrow of his bones and drink down everything that made the Joker himself.

He was pulled back to reality be the sick sound of flesh slapping flesh. He bit his lip until copper and iron filled his mouth, hating the friction in his body, hating the feeling of Bruce’s skin on his. The way his hands gripped his shoulder like a cold vice, pulled him back onto his body, told him silently he couldn’t move if he wanted to.

When Bruce was done he shoved him off his body. The Joker sprawled onto the floor, missing the chair he had been bent over. Not good enough for a bed now- once, he wouldn’t have cared. Once,he would have let Bruce have him where ever he wanted.

The Joker felt his stomach rolling again, his sex limp against his thigh- he hadn’t even gotten hard. He couldn’t now, when sex was a routine, when Bruce did it for some unknown reason, some tie to what had become normal. It was lifeless, emotionless. The Joker hadn’t wanted it in so long, it was hard to remember the last time he’d even orgasmed.

Bruce was fixing his clothing- he couldn’t be bothered to fully undress now. The Joker watched through angry eyes, his hand reaching towards his discarded jacket. His fingers slipped into it, into an inner pocket, traced over the shape of a switchblade.

He remembered the feel of a warm mouth as he grasped it and stood up. Curious hands as he stalked towards Bruce, the way the man had _loved_ him once, before the years and the nights had drained him, turned him into something dull, faded. Until he was just operating on a preconceived path with no feeling, no desires, no cares for the man who _completed him_.

He reached around him, arm across Bruce’s chest, for a moment like he might embrace him, bury his face against his neck and whisper the countless pet names, the admissions of love he once had. _Once_.

He flicked the blade open and lifted it, drew it deep across Bruce’s neck as the man stared forward, hearing the rush of air against the blade but not fighting. There was no fight left.

Bruce slumped, bleed out over his shirt and the Joker’s arm. The two fell to the floor, Bruce laying a crumpled and bloody mess. The blood pooled around them, soaked the Joker’s skin until he was speckled nearly everywhere, painted in what once kept the only man he ever loved alive.

He looked dully at Bruce’s body, felt nothing inside his chest. It was easy to not care, to not mourn, because the man he loved had died long ago. When the desire faded from his touch, when Gotham finally took the last bit of spark in Bruce’s eyes, that was when he truly died.

The Joker closed his eyes and felt his heart against his ribs, a slow, placid bump against the bone. It’s time for rest was in sight. It had no reason to beat, to force him to wake up every day, if Bruce was not there to drive him.

It hadn’t had reason in so long, the Joker wasn’t sure how he had lived this long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm going to write a happy fic again. Someday.


	6. Day 6: Complete, Unaltered Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot better in my head, this morning, when I thought of it :(

He watched her mouth as she spoke, those glossy pink lips, the way they clung to her glass of champagne when she drank. They should have been pretty, enticing, something to leave Bruce seducing her in the hopes of getting to know them better later. Instead, they seemed flat, almost colorless, too pale.

He sighed into his own glass, wondered what number it was. He shouldn’t even be here, but Alfred had reminded him the Mayor had invited him to dinner along with plenty of other socialites at the new restaurant that had opened, so here he was drinking champagne and wondering when he could leave. He set the empty glass down on a waiter’s tray and picked up a new one. Maybe he’d have to call Alfred for a ride.

He looked back at the woman as she spoke, had managed to decipher one or two words, when the doors to the restaurant were thrown open. A few masked men game rushing in, guns raised, a moment later followed by thick, rich laughter.

Laughter Bruce knew. He turned just in time to see the Joker walk in, grinning as always.

“Hell- _ooo_ Gotham’s finest,” he teased, “Why, I do seem to have stumbled upon a private part-y. Mayor, I’m _sooo_ disappointed, I was not invited! Or did my invitation get lost in the mail? Ah, maybe I’ll have to blow the post office up tomorrow.”

He walked past a waiter, grabbing a glass of champagne and taking a drink. “So where is the mayor? I do believe I need to have a word with him.” There was some scattered chatter, and the Joker frowned, throwing his glass onto the floor. “One at a time,” he said, and one woman spoke up,

“He...He went somewhere with my sister about ten minutes a-ago.” The Joker honed in on her, closed the gap and grinned.

“Ah, marvelous, good good _good_.” He looked away and snapped his fingers, pointing to two of the thugs. “You and you, down that hallway. Check every room, bathroom, kitchen, I don’t care. If you find him with his pants around his ankles, keep them like that when you bring him to me.”

They nodded and were off. The Joker motioned for his other thugs and they fanned out, gathering the attention of the guests as they jostled them, some demanding the jewelry the women wore. The Joker obviously didn’t care from the look in his eyes, that wasn’t his goal.

He walked by Bruce, stopped, turned to him. He was staring at his red lips, the rich color, the color he’d compared that woman’s lips to earlier, even if he didn’t want to admit it. The color that in his dreams would get smeared all over his battle worn skin as the Joker reveled in his flesh. As the Joker made good on his flirtations and made Bruce _completely his_.

He took a step closer, leaned in, staring into Bruce’s eyes. “My, you’re pretty,” he said, and Bruce felt his throat tightening. “Do you see something you liii-ke?” When Bruce didn’t speak the Joker grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him towards the large glass doors that led to the outside dinning area. The air hit Bruce in the face, a blast of something cool, and he was sure people were watching him from inside.

Maybe it was the champagne in his system, or maybe he’d finally reached his breaking point of seeing but not touching, but when the Joker turned to say something he reached up and gripped his face, pulling him in to pressing his lips hungrily to the madman’s. The Joker tensed up, didn’t move at first, but when Bruce let his tongue trace the seam between his lips, they opened, and he kissed back, moved his tongue along Bruce’s in a way that made him shiver. One of his hands found Bruce’s waist, gripped his coat as he sucked the breath from his lungs.

When Bruce broke the kiss, the Joker was smiling, but his eyes were confused. “Do I know you or somethin’, sugar?”

“I’ve wanted to do that for way too long,” Bruce said, voice wavering. Yes, _definitely_ too much champagne. The Joker raised on eyebrow at him, c=wondering if maybe he’d found Gotham’s richest crazy, when Bruce leaned in, pressed his chest to the Joker’s and whispered in a husky growl in his ear,

“I’m Batman.”

The Joker chuckled, but when Bruce leaned back and stared at him with nearly black eyes, the laugh died in his throat. “Bats,” he whispered, before throwing his arms around his shoulders and kissing him again. Bruce was pushing into him and nearly mewling into his voice, his head spinning, when there was a knock on the glass doors. The two parted and the Joker looked past Bruce as one of his thugs opened the door.

“What?!”

“They uh, found the mayor boss-“

“Doens’t it look like I’m busy?”

“Well...you said you wanted the mayor so the Bs\at would come.” The Joker let his eyes slide over Bruce quickly, before he looked back at his thug.

“Let him go,” he said, waving a hand, “Let them all go. We’re done for tonight.”

“But Boss-“

“NOW.” The man turned and fled, and the Joker turned back to Bruce, grinning like a fool. “So, a millionaire playboy? Bats, I’m shocked.” He reached up, traced his finger along his jaw. “So tell me, what made you suddenly so _willing_? And don’t say the champagne.”

Bruce thought on it, then leaned in, kissing the man again. It was enough to short circuit his brain, it was everything he ever thought, everything the Joker ever promised. He wanted to kick himself for putting it off for so long- for ever finding a reason to deny the clown.

“It’s just the truth,” he mumbled, “Me wanting to kiss you.” The Joker leaned back, giggling.

“You’re drunk Batsy. And I’m going to be honest with you. I’m going to take advantage of that.” He grinned, and Bruce smiled, excited, unable to hide it because his body didn’t quite seem to be listening to him.

He wanted the Joker to, and that was the complete truth of it. He had always wanted the Joker to.


	7. Day 7: Awkward Place for Bruce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making Bruce uncomfortable and blush is now my favorite thing to do.

If Bruce had known this would be the course of his night when he put the suit on, he would have stayed in.

He’d intended to have a word with the Joker in Arkham- see if he could probe him for hints of his future escape- because Bruce knew it would happen, he just hoped to delay it as long as possible- and also to get the whereabouts of Harley out of him. She was still on the loose, which meant trouble. Or a full scale mental melt down to try and break her _Puddin’_ free.

Bruce had thought he’d get the man in his cell. It was late, after all. Or perhaps going for some late night therapy, even exercise, since he was being kept from the other inmates- _no, patients, have to remember this is a hospital._ -

What he got was the Joker, stark naked, in the showers.

Part of him- most of him, actually- had said to hell with it, he could wait until tomorrow. But there was always that chance that he couldn’t- time was of essence with the Joker, and with Harley. And a tiny piece of him, one he screamed at to shut up, was curious, wanted to take a peek.

The Joker didn’t acknowledge him at first, as his boots echoed along the tiled floor. He stayed facing the water, rivets of it running down along his pale, scarred back, his thighs, his ass-

Bruce was flustered that it had taken all of three seconds for him to look there. He would punch himself if he had any skin he could get at. Maybe that would be something to talk to Alfred about when redesigning the suit, a tiny little spot on his arm where he could grab just a pinch of skin-

“Ya gonna say hi, Batsss, or just stare at me all night?” Bruce snapped out of his trance, watched as the Joker peered over his shoulder at him. Bruce wanted to speak, but words seemed to fail him for a moment, and when his tongue finally did work, his voice wavered- lost it’s guttural sound for a moment.

“I need to know about Harley,” he said, “She’s still out there. Tell me what she’s planning.”

The Joker laughed, a high and grating sound that _Bruce no longer found so annoying_ and turned his face back to the water, lathering his hands with the scentless, harsh soap he loathed so much.

“Can you tell me what _any_ woman is planning?” he asked, pushing the suds through his curls. “Sorry Bats, but I wouldn’t know. She’s _unpredictable_.”

“Not to you.” Bruce was watching a few of those suds trail down his spine. He was jealous of the way they got to touch his skin, feel bone under flesh-

God, _what was wrong with him?_

“Even to me, sometimes,” the Joker said, running the lather over his arms and chest. Bruce had to force himself to tear his eyes away, to look over at a farther, dark corner, count his breaths. His suit felt hot and tight in all the wrong places, and he knew this had been _a very bad idea_. He hadn’t intended to look back at all, but he heard the Joker move- just a little- and his head jerked back out of habit, out of that knowledge that if the Joker moved he _needed_ to know where.

He’d simply dipped his head under the water, to let the suds rinse from his hair and body. He pulled back, pushed his hair back and opened those too green eyes, turning abruptly to face Bruce. Bruce’s cheeks instantly tinged pink and he averted his eyes up, towards the ceiling. He’d just have to keep them there, forever.

Yeah, that was the plan. That sounded about right.

“What’s-a-matter, _Batsy_ ,” he cooed, taking a step closer, “Afraid you’ll see something you like?”

_Yes_.

“No,” Bruce said, and his voice nearly cracked. He was way too deprived if this was getting to him this badly, and he mentally made a note to get a damn date sometime soon. The Joker took another step, and Bruce knew he had to look, had to watch so the man didn’t try anything _funny_. He tilted his head back down, caught the man’s eyes, tried to stare directly into them and only them. The Joker held his gaze, waited, smirked because he could see Bruce’s eyes as they slipped from eyes to nose, to mouth, to neck, and down along his lean, battle torn body, along lithe muscle under marble like flesh.

Bruce’s cheeks turned a bright red and he turned on his heel. He lost his breath, felt his heart hammering against his ribs violently as the suit got more constricting. The Joker started laughing then, moved quickly, grabbed a fistful of Bruce’s cape and tugged.

“Aw c’mon back, Batsss,” he said, “One eyeful isn’t enough. _How about a taste_?”

Bruce got impossibly redder and turned, pulling his cape free. In those few seconds, he got another good look at the Joker, and wondered what that long scar along his navel did taste like.

The Joker was laughing as Bruce stormed out of the showers, no richer in information than when he had first arrived. No, the night belong to the clown, because he had successfully gotten under Bruce’s skin-

Though, a tiny sliver of Bruce considered tonight a victory with the cache of images his brain now held of the naked clown in all his glory.


	8. Day 8: Unavoidable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation from Day 6 :)

Bruce’s temples were pounding as Alfred handed him a cup of coffee. There was light filtering into his bedroom from a large opening in one of the curtain sets, and he desperately wanted to tape it shut. He took a sip of the scolding liquid- black, as always- and watched the butler as he set down the coffee tray on his nightstand.

“Anything new in the news?” he asked, and Alfred averted his gaze. Bruce frowned. “Alfred...”

“Later, Master Wayne,” he said, but Bruce was shaking his head.

“No, now. What is it?” He was worried for a second what may have happened while he took a night off. Alfred sighed and handed him the paper. Bruce scanned over it, stopped at one of the headlines-

_Playboy kissed under the Moonlight! Bruce Wayne spotted with the notorious Joker at a dinner with the mayor last evening, getting friendly._

“Oh fucking hell,” he muttered, setting his coffee aside. He stood up, holding a sheet around him, and winced at the ache in his ass. A reminder that last night wasn’t some sort of drunken dream. When he stood the man next to him rolled over, curling up on himself, and Bruce wanted to punch himself. _What had he been thinking?_

_Oh, right. He hadn’t._

“This is a disaster, Alfred,” he said, glancing over the article. “I’m going to have to make some sort of statement to the vultures about this.”

“And what will you say, sir?”

“That I didn’t have much of a choice, and I was afraid for my life?”

“You weren’t very ah, afraid last night, sugar.”

Bruce turned, stared at the Joker’s green eyes as they watched him quizzically. He grinned, and Bruce was torn between wanting to punch his teeth in and attempting to shove his tongue down his throat.

“I’ll...leave you two for a bit,” Alfred said, giving Bruce a look that meant they’d be speaking later. At length. When he was gone Bruce let go of the sheet, wanting both hands to sift through the paper. The Joker watched the sheet fall, then licked his lips.

“Come back to bed, _Bats_ ,” he said, “Let the town _talk_. They’re going to flap their ugly tongues about something, let it be you.”

“No,” Bruce said, “No, I have to get dressed and put this to rest.”

“What? The truth?” The Joker pushed himself up, crawled closer, naked and quite obviously not caring. “Why don’t you just _embrace_ it and live a little? Let Them see that Gotham’s favorite son is a little _fucked_ in the head.”

He stopped when he got to Bruce, arched up and kissed one of his lower ribs. Bruce let out a little breath, tried to ignore it. He had to get this taken care of, he had to fix this situation. The only good that had come of it was that the Joker was off the streets for the night, that he and his thugs had ended up not even hurting anyone last night.

_And that Bruce had gotten the fuck of his life._

The Joker’s mouth trailed lower, along the muscles of his abdomen, and Bruce was finding it increasingly harder to breathe.

“I’m sure they’ll believe me if I say I was threatened, nervous. I’ll point out you were distracted enough that no one else got-Ah!”

Bruce stopped when the Joker wrapped his mouth around him, gasping for the air he lost. He closed the paper and looked down, just as the man looked up at him, swallowing him deeper. Bruce groaned and dropped the paper to the floor, deciding this could wait until the afternoon.

There was someone else who needed his attention far more desperately.


	9. Day 9: Dawn's First Light

The rooftops of Gotham are one of the best places to watch the sunrise. Bruce has realized this from his years under the cowl, the many nights that end when the run is rising and he’s tired and can’t seem to think of any thing else to do except stop for those brief few seconds and watch the sun come up.

Now, sitting here, the colors seem richer than usual, pinks and oranges that bleed into one vibrant vermilion hue as the sky parts and he can just seethe top of the sun breaking through.

Next to him, the Joker is silent. He’s got a trail of still wet blood on his chin, and the hem of the sleeve of his jacket is torn at the shoulder. But he sits there in content silence, green eyes watching as he is bathed in that warm, orange-gold first light, chasing back the shadows.

Bruce wonders if he should say something. He thinks of all the things he could say in that moment, _Does it hurt?_ or _Are you cold?_ , or even _You look beautiful in this light_.

He wants to say all of that, because even though he’s the one that injured the man he doesn’t want to see him hurt, because he knows Gotham mornings are cold and he wants to wrap him in his cape and hold him-

Because he _is_ beautiful, so much so that it makes Bruce ache deep in his chest.

Instead he scoots closer, takes his cape and drapes it over the man’s shoulders. The Joker looks at him, but doesn’t say a word, just reaches up and clutches it around him, letting his eyes move back to the sky. Bruce is watching him now and not the sky, the way the light is changing slowly on his pale skin, reflecting in his hair. He reaches out, the Joker sees the movement, turns to meet it, and Bruce runs his thumb along his chin, wiping the blood away, touching the very bottom of his swollen lower lip. His lids grow heavy and Bruce can see the blonde in his eyelashes, is sure they feel like butterfly wings against his skin.

He leans closer, lets his forehead rest against the Joker’s, breathes in his breath and says none of the words building up. His hands finds the Joker’s, and their fingers tangle together, and for a moment there is no chaos, no blood and buirses, there’s just two men and the start to another day in their city of shadows.

Bruce wants to kiss him, so badly his mouth hurts. He wants to kiss him and let him know that it hurts him more than it hurts the Joker to do these things to him- that if he’d give a little, if he’d stop the chaos, Bruce would take him in, love him, give him everything in the world. He’d give him himself. But he knows that won’t happen, he knows there will never be a night when the Joker doesn’t let the terror inside that body out into his city, doesn’t take lives and revel in the feeling of a knife opening skin and muscle down to the bone.

So he sits there for a brief moment, pretending this is all there is, these moments in the early light, that there is no night, no day, just dawn. He turns his head, cheek almost brushing the Joker’s lips, and looks out as the sun makes its final pull into the day. Next to him, the Joker does the same, eyes reflecting the heat and light, and Bruce squeezes his hand.

He won’t stop hoping, every morning, that the man will say something, and this will all end. He won’t stop hoping that someday, he can hold him and tell him he’s as beautiful as the Gotham skyline at dawn, that he’s the first light of Bruce’s every waking moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd originally planned on some angst and heartbreak, but I ended up with fluff. I don't really write enough of that.


	10. Day 10: Meet the Parents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just short and sappy.

The Joker kicked at the ground gently, eyes roaming over the two headstones, then off to the dark sky, then back again. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his tongue darting out and licking his lips.

“Nice view out here,” he said to the empty air, staring up at the sky. “Wonder if Bats has ever noticed. He’s probably too busy with you two.” He looked back. “Not really sure what I’m supposed to say when I meet someone’s parents. I’m not very, ah, good at this _domestic_ thing.” He ran a hand through his hair almost nervously, as if he was standing under the towering gazes of Martha and Thomas Wayne themselves. “But Bruce likes it when I try to be, ah, normal. He wanted me to...meet you two.”

He looked off at the stars again, silently wondered where Bruce was right then. He’d gone down to the cave, and out for the night, and all Joker knew was that he was _probably_ in the city. Probably.

“He’s trying to change me,” he said, “Trying to reconstruct who I am. He wants to take the rage out, turn me into some sort of kitten.” He fidgeted, looking back at the graves. “It’s terrifying...I almost don’t mind. _Almost_. It’s different when he’s just Bruce, and not Batsy. It’s like I almost forget what we do in the city, the rooftop chases and the bruises. Like we’re just a regular couple who likes cheesy romance movies that we miss half of because we get too handsy.” He chuckled. “Sorry, you probably didn’t wanna, ah, hear that.”

“It’s true, though,” he continued, “But I don’t think Bruce will ever...ever turn me into what he wants. He doesn’t _understand_ that I have to be this, that he needs me to be this. If Batman doesn’t have _me_ , he’ll fall apart. And then Bruce will fall apart.” He crouched down, eye level with the engraved names. “I _love_ him too much to do that. Even if it means I can’t have him.” He traced the _M_ of Marth’s name. “I think you guys understand that, though. Or you think I’m crazy. Which, I’m no-t. Not every night, anyway.”

He stood back up, straightened his jacket. “I can’t think of anything else for you two. I did what Bruce asked, I’m not sure what else he wants. I don’t have anything to tell you about myself- but even if I did, you, ah, wouldn’t wanna hear it. Trust me.” He wrapped his arms around him, the chill of the night setting in. “I’ll leave you two in peace. Just know that I...Bruce means a lot to me.” He turned, took a few steps, then stopped, spoke without looking back..

“You’ve got one hell of a son.”

He walked away as the wind kicked up, back towards the manor, where Bruce would be returning early from patrol, from a quiet city. He’d ask if the Joker if he’d gone out like requested, and the clown would nod and mumble yeah, he did it. Wouldn’t say much else, but he wouldn’t need to. Bruce would see something in those eyes, and he’s slip an arm around him and ask if he’s up for a movie before they turn in, if he wants to be normal for a night.

The Joker just smiles and thinks maybe he does.


	11. Day 11: Isolated

His head smacks against the wall, but he barely feels it. There’s padding there, everywhere, so that he can’t harm himself, can’t lure a nurse in to tend to his wounds. They know those tricks by now, have seen the damage he’s caused like that.

That’s not why he’s doing it, though. He’s been locked up for days, and his mind is turning in on itself. There was a time when he was _so good_ at solitary, when it didn’t phase him and he had perfect control over the throbbing mass that was his embodied mind. There was a time when he could handle all of it and walk out grinning, new plans churning inside his head.

That was before. Before the Bat first kissed him, before he first tore open his clothing, held his sex in one gauntlet hand and pushed him against a wall as he touched him. That was before he got to fist his hands in that cape and scream out until his throat was raw because _the Bat hurt at first, but so deliciously so_.

Now that’s all he can think of. His mind unravels as he sees blue-black eyes and a smirk on those lips, that handsome jawline. All he knows is that body, the bits he is allowed to see- he’s never had the Bat entirely naked, but he’s alright with small steps. It’s taken years to get to this point, he’s happy for about anything. But nothing is not anything, yet that’s all he has now. So he slams his head into the wall and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to pretend he doesn’t feel those hands on his body, trying to remind himself he is alone, and he needs to think.

They’ve put him on something, he knows. Something in the small amounts of food they give him, which he devours because he is _ravenous_. Once he could refuse food for his entire stay in solitary, once his body listened to him. Now he feels the pangs of hunger and he eats without bothering to think about what the food is laced with. The drugs make him drowsy, make the room fuzzy, make it easier to fall back and imagine the Bat crawling over him, kissing the scar along his collar bone that he always looks at quizzically because _he didn’t leave it_ , and the one along his navel, which isn’t his handiwork either.

The he bites his tongue until he tastes blood, rests his head on the wall and tries to focus on breathing. All it does it remind him how it feels to lay his head on the Bat’s chest and feel it rise and fall, listen to his heart hammer against his ribs- because the organ is _never_ calm around him, that hint of fear always present which he loves- and his chest tightens, hurts, because those moments are almost _tender_ and he’s never known that before now.

He turned and slid down the wall, slumping forward in a restrained mess. When the lock to the cell turned and the door opened, he didn’t even look up. Once, he would have known the exact schedule when they’d come to feed him, once he’d have known this was not the right time, but he could barely tell who he was, his mind was heavy and slow from the medication, so placid because all he could think of was the Bat, _the Bat the Bat the Bat_ and how he felt and that warmth in his belly-

Someone was crouching down, a hand settling on his shoulder, He peered up through his shaggy, unkempt curls, glossy eyes roaming over a strong jawline, the black of a cowl. Somewhere in his mind he was screaming, he was dancing, but his body couldn’t connect to that, and all he could do was stare.

Batman stared down at him for a moment, whispered “Joker,” but there was nothing. Carefully, he scooped the man up- lighter than when he was first admitted, always lighter- and cradled him. He leaned against Batman’s broad chest, could just hear his heartbeat below the Kevlar.

“I’m sorry,” Batman said, turning so they were facing the light outside in the hallway. “I shouldn’t have ever sent you back. Not...now.” He took a step towards it, and the Joker feels himself slipping a little. The room fades, that heartbeat steadies. He closes his eyes as Batman carries him, wants to tell him that there are drugs in his system, that he needs to get them _out_. He can’t handle it, the oddly fragile make-up that this man is, that the system will crash. Instead he hears Batman humming a wordless tune, pressing him closer.

The light hurts, he wants to say. He can feel it through his eyelids, but he keeps his mouth shut because it won’t move, and because he doesn’t want the Bat to change his mind. Instead he focuses on the bump of his heard, the _thum thum thump_ that is slowing, more than it ever has.

Could it be? The fear is gone? He wants to hate that idea, but oh, he doesn’t have the energy. He presses his lips together instead and focuses on the sound, until the room fades completely to white, to gray, to black. _Thum...thum...thump. Thum... ... thum... ... thump..._

When Batman carries him into the light, his body is tingling, a sense of his nerves biting back at something, at the numbness the drugs have caused or the pressure of the light pushing down on his thin body.

_Thum. ... ... ... Thum..._ He tries to breathe in the Bat’s scent, the Kevlar and Gotham wind and the sweet scent of his skin, but there is nothing, and suddenly he’s not even breathing. _...Thump..._ He tries to move- _....thum...._ but his body is too heavy. He wants to hold onto him, to tell him please, the light hurts, take me back, but his mouth is dry, his tongue is dead. _... ... Thum..._ As the light engulfs him, the body he is pressed to becomes air, becomes nothing, and then everything is black, and he is inside that rib cage, inside the sweet darkness, pressing to bone and feeling the warmth of blood and organs and the intensity that was and always would be inside the Bat.

_Thump_.

And then, there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not plan this ending. The idea hit me when Batman turned towards the light, and I decided to forgo my happy ending idea and get some more angst up in here.  
> ...Did anyone not understand it? I was a little worried it might get muddy and lost. I ended up dragging it out far more then I first decided on when I decided against the happy.


	12. Day 12: Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, they're getting domestic <3 Better write something sad and tragic soon to offset it.

“Batbrat!” the Joker hisses as Damian just grins, folding his arms. A moment later the raised voices bring both Alfred and Bruce into the room.

“What’s going on?” Bruce asks, and Damian shrugs a shoulder and tries to put on his best _I’m-just-ten_ innocent faces. It fails miserably.

“Your... _kid_ it trying to kill me,” the Joker said, glaring daggers at Damian. “We was about to put something in my drink.”

“Damian?” Bruce asked, walking past the Joker to tower over his son. “Is this true?”

“...It was just gonna knock him out for a bit,” he said, scuffing his feet on the floor. “...I was going to dye his hair pink while he was out.” Bruce said, holding his hand out, and Damian fishes the pills from his pockets, hands them to Bruce. He looks over at Alfred, who moves without command, coming over and escorting Damian out of the room. When they’re gone Bruce turns to the Joker, who has flopped down on the couch, rubbing his temples.

“Damian will come around,” Bruce said, sitting next to him and placing the pills on the table. The Joker looked at them, then picked up his drink and finishe it off. He doesn’t like Scotch, but Bruce loves it, and he’s gotten used to drinking whatever he has without much question.

“Might’ve killed me,” he pointed out, “Sedative with this.”

“He didn’t mean-“

“Oh bullshit Batsy baby,” he said leaning back. “You know he did. I would’ve been an, ah, nice trophy, I bet. A Robin finally taking down the Joker.”

“I’ve told Damian,” Bruce said, reaching over and placing a hand on the Joker’s leg, “that all that...it’s behind us. We’re trying to make something... _normal_ here. He’ll stop looking at you as the enemy someday. They all will.”

“By then I’ll be so old I won’t be capable of much anyway.” Bruce sighed and stood up, taking the Joker’s glass and refilling it, getting himself a drink as well. He hands it to the man who takes a quick drink, before setting it aside because he can only handle so much before the taste is too overwhelming. “There’s a reason Harley and I never reproduced.”

“I thought you two were just too busy destroying my city,” Bruce said with a teasing smile, taking a drink. The Joker shoved him affectionately.

“Very funny. I’m the Joker here, remember sugar? No, it’s because kids are _brats_ and more pain than they’re worth. Can you imagine a mini-Harley? I had enough on my hands dealing with the full size model.” Bruce laughed, trying to cover his mouth to contain it. When he finally calmed down, he finished off his drink and set the empty glass aside.

“I imagine a smaller form of you would be even worse.” He smirked and the Joker just frowned, shoving him until Bruce fell onto the couch cushions. He crawled over him, laying on top of his chest, and peered into his dark eyes.

“Maybe _you’re_ the real Batbrat,” he said, kissing him. Bruce chuckled into his mouth, wrapping his arms around him and running one hand along his spine. “I hope you’re right,” the Joker continued, softening the kiss, “That he comes around someday.”

“He did say something _nice_ about you the other day.” The Joker raised an eyebrow, folding his arms on Bruce’s chest.

“Oh? Do tell lambchop.”

“He said, and allow me to use his words here, that you have a _hot butt_ for a madman.” If it was possible for the color to drain from the Joker’s face, it did, and he flopped his head down onto his wrists, groaning.

“ _Bruuuuce_ , that’s...that’s rather messed up.” Bruce was laughing.

“Relax, he’s just a kid. A ten-year-old crush is nothing. He won’t actually mature into it for a good few years. Maybe when he’s fifteen I’ll worry.” The Joker jerked his head up, looking at him with accusing, wide eyes.

“I need another drink,” he muttered, and Bruce gave him a devious smirk, guiding his head down so he could kiss him again. His mouth tasted like Scotch, and the Joker fell right into it. _This_ was the only way he liked the taste.


	13. Day 13: Intervention

The stood behind Batman’s limp body, tied down to an old chair. He was tracing a finger from shoulder to shoulder, silently reveling in the knowledge that was all hard muscle and scarred flesh underneath, and he _wanted a taste_ so desperately. Soon, he had to remind himself, soon.

When the Bat stirred and grinned and walked around him, leaning down so they were face to face- so his eyes and grinned mouth were the first thing Batman saw.

“Good morning sleeping beauty!” he said, stretching his arms out. “I do hope your nightmares were pleasant.”

“Jok...er.” The word was broken, a rattling rasp from his throat. It burned, dry and nearly aching, and his head was a little foggy. “You...drugged me.”

“Bing-o!” The Joker did a little twirl, clapping his hands. “Correct for 200 points, Batsy!”

“W-why?”

“Well,” he said, tapping his chin, “Aside of the fact that you’re _the Batman_ and you tend to ruin _aaall_ my fun! Because I want to, ah, help you, lampchop.” Batman narrowed his eyes.

“Help me? You don’t...help anyone.” The Joker frowned, heaving a sigh and leaning on one of Batman’s shoulders.

“You just don’t _understand_ my work, Bats. I help everyone I touch. I show them the beauty in this city, in _chaos_.” He leaned closer, dared to nudge his nose against Batman’s jawline. “I show them how to be _free_ , without the restrictions of your petty little society. I show them how to embrace fear and _laugh_.”

“You show them death.” The last word came out angry, almost a snarl, and the Joker wanted to suck that naughty tongue into his mouth for it. He settled for licking a line along Batman’s jawline instead.

“And why is that _bad_ , Batsy? It’s part of your _cycle_. At least they’re smiling in the end!” He moved, settled him onto Batman’s lap, straddling his thighs and leaning into him, hips rocking obscenely. “Give chaos a little _taste_ Bats, and you’ll understand.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.” The Joker pouted.

“You deny it every time, I see the truth in your, ah, eyes, Bats. You’re even more curious about how my chaos tastes than I am about who is under this silly little mask.” He tapped on Batman’s forehead. “Lucky for you, and me, we’ll both get what we, ah, want, tonight. This is an intervention, Batsy. I’m gonna _cure_ you of your sick addiction to your clouded idea of _justice_ , of your addiction to this city.”

“And how could you possibly do that?”

“I’m going to unmask you,” the Joker said, fingers running along the cowl. “I’m gonna peek at who ever sits inside the Bat. And then I’m going to break him so badly he won’t ever restrain you again. I’m going to let you give in to those nasty little desires you have at night, Batty boy, where you nearly _rip me open_ and I’m, ah, screaming for more.”

Batman said nothing, just scowled, and the Joker was giggling. He lowered his head, carefully, and pushed his painted mouth to Batman’s. The vigilante’s body went rigid, and his initial thought was to jerk away, or bite the man’s lip. But he didn’t move, because part of him, deep down, one dark coil, was curious. Wanted to know how this man’s mouth moved, how it tasted.

Oddly sweet, that was how. The lips were scarred, but not unpleasant, not _slimy _like Batman had considered. And when that obscene tongue darted onto the part of his lips, his mouth opened and he exhaled into him, tilting his head so the Joker had the perfect angle. Batman felt the man quivering, crackling with raw energy in his lap, grinding into him with such a need he couldn’t contain it.__

__His own mouth was moving without him really noticing. Pushing back against thsoe scarred lips, his tongue slipping along the Joker’s, until it was inside his mouth, learning the layout of the scars on his cheeks, the feeling of hard, sharp teeth. The Joker pulled away before Batman was ready, and he leaned forward, trying to catch him again, but the man was out of reach._ _

__He grinned, his lipstick smudged, and chuckled. “This is how it’s going to go, Bats,” he said, his words just a bit breathy- Batman could see his chest rising and falling quickly in his excitement. “You’re going to _fuck_ me, to the point of oblivion. I don’t need to walk after, not right away. You’re going to _let go_ and enjoy a little bit of mayhem, and then when we’re, ah, done-“ he leaned closer, pressing his mouth to the cowl where Batman’s ear was hidden, “I’m gonna bend you over and fuck _you_ until you see stars behind those pretty eyes of yours.”_ _

__His fingers were working on one of the ropes that bound Batman’s arm. He loosened it, pulled it away, and grabbed his arm, slipping it between them and forcing the vigilante to palm his erection through his pants. He groaned, green eyes nearly rolling back for a second, and Batman had the chance to act, to damage him, shove him off, work free his other binds._ _

__Instead he gripped that length he felt, stroking it, felt the lithe man shake. The Joker leaned down, panting against his lips. “Tell me Batsy,” he murmured, fingers reaching up, running deftly along his cowl, “How does chaos taste?”_ _

__He shoved back the cowl, freeing Bruce from it. He took one moment to take in the handsome face, before he dug his hand into his short hair and tugged, devouring his mouth with a primal, animal like force, in a way so obscene Bruce was sure he should be disgusted- but that little coil inside him that wanted to know this man was delighted, reveled in it, fought back and kissed him in ways beyond lust, delving into the murky grounds of need, of devouring so that the Joker was inside his belly, in the how coals that was burning and threatening to set his body on fire._ _

__Bruce was breaking, each moment, each breath sucked from his lungs. He was hard and wanting and he couldn’t remember what it was like to _not_ want this man, and everything was melting away. Reason, sanity, the feeling that was was _wrong_. It didn’t matter if it was, it was _good_ , and that was the only important thing._ _

__“Sweet,” Bruce murmured into the Joker’s mouth, as the man was working free his other bindings. He free his other arm and Bruce wrapped them around him, pulling him close and trying to dig his fingers in through the man’s suit. “Chaos tastes sweet.”_ _

__Bruce kissed him this time, that dark part of him that secretly _liked_ what the Joker had promised winning, pulling him down into the dark pits of himself. The Joker rocked against him, needing, and Bruce wanted nothing more than to go along with his plans and nearly rip him open._ _

__He was losing, part of his mind was telling him, but it was irrelevant, he knew. In actuality, he’s already lost._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This felt so good to write, back to what feels like real raw BatJokes. I'd love to find one of the other prompts and write the rest of the encounter >.>


	14. Day 14: Role Reversal

Bruce tugged on his leather gloves, flexing his fingers, enjoying the feel of the material against his skin. Behind him, traffic roared into the young Gotham night, the roads alive with late night workers and those looking for a good time. He kept his back to it, pulling the collar of his purple jacket up, wondering what the fabric looked like in the moonlight.

 _Obsidian violet_ he told himself, because he knew, oh _he knew_ from experience. 

He stuffed his gloved hands into his pockets as he walked, humming a wordless tune against the wind. He drifted down the winding allies, eyes flitting from brick wall to brick wall, waiting.

He heard the sound of boots landing on the pavement, of the wind pushing against heavy fabric, but he still did not have time to turn. A lean body crashed into him, pinning him to the brick wall roughly. He swallowed the lump in his throat, resisted gyrating back against the body that fit so neatly into the curve of his back.

"Got you," a giddy voice said, his breath ghosting along the shell of Bruce's ear. He shivered, pressed back into the curve of the man, as he grabbed one of Bruce's arms and entangled their fingers, pushing it into the brick. "Thought you could, ah, _run_ from me?"

"Never," Bruce breathed, scraping his chest along the brick. His emerald silk shirt made his skin tingle in all the right ways. "I wanted you to find me, _sugar_."

'The man's breath escaped him, and he shoved Bruce even closer to the brick. Bruce's other arm was pinned against his body, but he slipped his fingers into his pocket, curling them around a knife. He took a breath, then jerked his body back, throwing the man off him. He turned, flicking the blade open and staring at the man who had crumpled onto the pavement, having landed against the opposite brick wall. His black trench coat had opened, showing the deep v of his black shirt and the scarred, pale skin beneath. Bruce licked his lips, remembering how it tasted.

He closed the gap, a skip in his step, and crouched down between his legs, reaching his hand into his thick green curls and jerking it up. He had a black mask on, similar to that of Batwoman, that left his locks exposed- just like Bruce liked.

"You're off your game," he teased, running the flat of the blade along his jawline, then tapping it against the pulse point in his throat. The man watched through nearly glowing green eyes, mouth set in a passive line. "Gonna have to teach you a lesson-"

The man jerked at that, lifting his legs and wrapping them around Bruce's waist. He rolled, forcing Bruce to the pavement, and scrambled back to compose himself, before lurching out onto him. Bruce shoved the knife up and he grabbed his wrist, dodging so it just messed nicking his neck. He squeezed until Bruce's grip went loose, and he took the knife, tossing it away.

"What was that about being, ah, off my game?" The man grinned, settling on Bruce's hips and pressing down. Bruce groaned, and the man’s eyelids got heavy. "You've been so _bad_ , maybe I'll have to teach you a lesson." He leaned over them, so they were chest to chest, pressing his naturally dark lips along Bruce’s jawline, dragging them up along his cheek, before crashing them against his perfect mouth. Bruce thrust his hips up, losing himself in the tongue that pressed past his lips, slipped along his own, tested the sharpness of his teeth.

The man moved with a precise quickness, grasping Bruce’s wrists and shoving them above his head, a _clink_ of handcuffs following the movement. The man leaned back and grinned, Bruce staring at him with kiss swollen lips and glossy eyes.

“You’re going back to Arkham,” he breathed, “Where, ah, freaks like _you_ belong.” Bruce chuckled, leaned up, staring the man in the eyes.

“You belong there too,” he said with a grin, “Maybe we can share a room. After all, you’re just a _freak like me_.” He closed the gap, kissing him again, and the man shoved him down, one hand slipping between them to palm Bruce’s aching erection through his clothing. The man was just grasping his zipper when they heard the sound of sirens in the distant. They sat up, rigid, looked at each other for a moment, before Bruce sighed. “Sorry babe,” he said, lifting his wrists up, “but that means our fun’s up. Wanna uncuff me?”

His lover sighed and unlocked the cuffs with a frown. They scrambled up, and then with a grin Bruce grapped him and threw him over his shoulder, the man shrieking with surprise laughter, and ran off into the dark, towards where the Tumbler was hidden.

“Can I, ah, drive?” Bruce rolled his eyes.

“Hell no. Get in- maybe we can finish up at the cave.” He winked, and the Joker reached up and adjusted his mask, giggling.

“Fine, fine, baby. But lean back, I wanna get a _head_ start on the way.” Bruce’s cheeks tinged as he closed the doors and the Joker made good on his word, leaning over and opening his fly, reaching a hand in to palm him again. “You look good as me, Bats. Maybe we should, ah, do this for real.”

“Shut up,” Bruce said, and the Joker giggled and wrapped his lips around his sex, making Bruce groan. “We can’t-AH- let anyone s-see us like...this...”

“Right,” he mumbled, looking up, “God forbid anyone knows the big bad Bat likes to play dress up and get fucked by _himself_.” He winked, and Bruce smirked, sinking a hand into his curls and shoving him back down.

“Don’t talk with your mouthful,” he said, and he felt the Joker laugh around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or the day Bruce and J played dress up. This is way too fun of a concept to ignore. I might have to bring it back.  
> Also, anyone else ever wonder if Bruce gets head in the Batmobile? I realize I should have called it that and not the Tumbler...can't quite do it in the Tumbler. My bad.


	15. Day 15: Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows along with Day 6 and Day 8. Thinking I'll probably update this story line another time or two before the challenge is done.

Bruce stepped through the front door, pulling it shut and clicking the lock behind him as his other hand loosened his tie. He pulled it free, shrugging his jacket off at the same time, leaving them draped over one arm.

“Alfred?” he called, noting how oddly silent the manor was. Odd, Alfred usually met him at the door. He walked through the spacious rooms, towards the kitchen, eyes on his phone that he had pulled from his pocket as he skimmed through his e-mail. He set his tie and jacket on the table, opening the fridge without looking up.

“Long day at work, sugar?” Bruce jumped, dropping his phone, and looked over his shoulder. The Joker was sitting on his counter, his own purple jacket in a heap next to him, his tie tossed over the back of a chair, green shirt unbuttoned along his chest and left the expose long, pale expanses of skin.

“How did you get in here?” he asked, bending down to pick up his phone and setting it on the table. He turned back to the fridge, grabbing a slender, stylized glass picture of orange juice, and walking to one of the cupboards. As he poured himself a glass, he was acutely aware of the Joker’s eyes taking him in, burning holes in the back of his shirt.

“I knocked,” he finally said, kicking one of his legs with a smile. “Good ole Jeeves let me in.”

“ _Let_ you in?” Bruce turned, taking a drink from the glass, and the Joker’s smile broadened.

“Yu-p. He let me right in. Said he was goin’ out, but you’d be home soon.”

“Alfred would never just _let_ you in. You have no idea the lecture I got after...our first...you know.”

“The first night I fucked your ass so hard you saw stars?” Bruce choked on his juice, having to force the liquid down and then slamming the glass on the counter as he started coughing. “What?”

“You could be a little more-“ he coughed, “I don’t know...subtle. Tasteful.”

“Why? It’s the, ah, truth of it, Batsy baby.” He stretched his legs out. “So Jeeves gave you a tongue lashing?”

“Yes. Which is why there’s no way he let you in here.”

“Maybe he thought that, ah, if I didn’t come in, I’d just get you somewhere pub-lic. And you’d have to explain to the media about how you were so _scared_ for your life.” The Joker smirked, clicking his tongue, and Bruce rolled his eyes.

“What do you want, anyway? I had a long day and I’m tired.”

“So no sexy suit tonight?”

“No,” Bruce said, running a hand through his hair. “I was hoping for a full night’s sleep.” The Joker seemed the ponder his answer for a minute, before sliding off the counter, walking over with a sway in his hips that _forced_ Bruce to stare.

Yes, forced.

“I guess we can have a, ah, night in,” he said, wrapping an arm around Bruce’s shoulders. “Lemme warn ya, though, lambchop, I tend to get frisky when forced to sit through boring movies.” Bruce raised an eyebrow. His admission had been in no way an invitation, and yet, he had to stop and wonder what it _would_ by like to curl up under a blanket with the man, to attempt to watch a film he cared nothing for and wait on bated breath for his hands to get too curious, too friendly, to end up a tangled mess on the couch-

Bruce stopped. It was positively _normal_ , domestic. There had to be a catch.

“I wasn’t inviting you,” he pointed out, and the Joker grinned.

“You were, you just don’t _know_ it yet, sugar. You couldn’t handle a night without _me_ if you tried. Isn’t that why you got, ah, drink on champagne and kissed me?” His grin turned devious. “Someone has t cure you of all this _denial_ Batsy-Brucie-baby.” He leaned up, curled against Bruce’s chest, nuzzling the sensitive skin of his neck, kissing the skin just behind his earlobe. “And I’m just the man for the job.”

Bruce thought to protest, but the Joker was guiding him back against the counter, inching a leg between his. Bruce hesitated for one second when he saw him tilt his head perfectly, align his lips, but didn’t stop the man from kissing him. He reached back and gripped the counter, trying to tell himself he didn’t enjoy this that much. That first night- _and the following morning_ \- had just been exciting because they were _new_.

But he was moaning softly into that scarred mouth, and when the Joker’s hands drifted along his waist, tugged, he broke the kiss and hopped up onto the counter without a thought. The Joker grinned and ran his hands up along his thighs, squeezing as he nearly reached his pelvis.

“Wanna tell me you don’t _waaaant_ this, cupcake?” He squeezed again, so close, and Bruce realized he was fidgeting, rocking his hips, wanting those hands to move, to find their ultimate goal. Still, he didn’t speak, which made the Joker chuckle. “You’re a tough case, Mr. Bat-Wayne,” he admitted, releasing his hold and drumming his fingers on his thighs instead. “But I think, with a little, ah, _work_ -“ He let one finally move, press between them and palm Bruce, who was half hard and worrying the inside of his cheek, “I can make all your denial _go away_.”

He kissed him again, and Bruce wasn’t thinking about how he really convinced Alfred to let him in, or about the countless reasons he should ask him to leave. He was reaching out and holding onto him, considering the reasons he should let him _stay_.


	16. Day 16: Cramped Quarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assume a pre-established affair...of sorts.

Bruce tried to inhale, but the movement rubbed his chest against the other man’s, and he squirmed, trying to get away, but his back was against the wall. The Joker’s leg instinctively pressed between his, pressing his thigh up into his crotch. Bruce gasped, another chest bump, and the Joker’s hands were on his sides, slipping under his jacket to feel his black cotton shirt.

“I like being this close,” he purred, letting his curls dip into his vision as his eyes took in Bruce in the dark of the closet. Bruce tried to squirm away, but his back was pressed so tightly to the wall he had no where to go- and he couldn’t risk thumping around and someone hearing them, and worse, _finding_ them.

He hadn’t meant to get trapped in the empty coat closet with the man. The Joker had suck his way into Bruce’s office, much to the playboy’s dismay. He had been getting ready for a lunch date, and had a meeting planned for that evening, and had just wanted to get the madman out of his hair until it was dark and he had the cowl on. He could deal with him then. But the Joker, as always, had plans of his own, and Bruce had been forced to try and hide him when he wouldn’t leave and he heard his secretary approaching. He’d shoved the man into the- thankfully empty- coat closet, but at the last second the Joker had jerked himself inside, and Bruce had been left to play along, as it wouldn’t do to come bursting out of said closet on his poor secretary.

As it was, she was scribbling a note for him on his desk, mumbling about how she had no idea how he slipped out without her knowing. Bruce feared she might have heard the Joker’s whisper, but she stayed blissfully unaware.

The man’s hands had gone from fidgeting on his sides to his hips, running along the waist of his pants. Bruce tried to bat his hands away, cursing him quietly, and the Joker just stifled a giggle. He hooked one finger into Bruce’s pants, the other sliding down to rub him gently. Bruce inhaled sharply, reaching down and wrapping a hand around his wrist, but not pulling away. The Joker’s smile turned to a smirk, as he flicked the button on his pants open and unzipped them, sliding a hand inside to press against Bruce again, this time separated only by the thin cotton fabric of his underwear.

“Mmm, you’re so _warm_ sugar,” he said, moving in closer- which took very little movement at all- and pressing his red lips to Bruce’s neck. Bruce titled his head back, his breath hitching when the clown’s hand delved in and pulled him free- shamefully hard and leaking into his palm and nimble fingers. “ _Oh Bruce_ , and you try to play coy with me,” he teased, digging his teeth down into skin, no breaking but coming close, sucking on the tender flesh and flicking it with his tongue. His hand was stroking Bruce mercilessly as he did so, quick tugs that glided over the skin, his thumb swirling over the head from time to time, slicking the rest of Bruce’s shaft.

Bruce pushed his hips towards the Joker, breath coming in muffled pants as he tried to stay quiet, shockingly close to climax already. Outside the closet, they heard the click of heels and then the close of the door to Bruce’s office, and they were alone again.

“Make a little noise for me, precious,” the Joker urged, stroking faster, and Bruce moaned like a whore, hanging his head down so his forehead rested to the Joker’s. He could see those green eyes, wild and wanton and _greedy_ , and Bruce came _for them_ more than for anything else. The Joker recognized the hitch in his breath, the way his pupils expanded, and aimed his strokes perfectly that his palm managed to contain the mess.

Bruce’s head fell back and he slumped against the wall, held up by the Joker pressing to him. The Joker waited until Bruce’s eyes looked out at him, before running his tongue along his palm and fingers, not once breaking eye contact as he cleaned up the mess Bruce had made for him.

Bruce groaned again and closed his eyes.

“If you hurry,” the Joker said, his earlier smirk turning into a grin, “you can make your _date_.”

Bruce snapped his head down and glared at him, wanting to smack his head into the wall, throw him out of the closet. Possibly out the window. He could feel the skin on his neck heating up, turning from dark red to a blossom of bruises where the Joker’s mouth had claimed him. He couldn’t very well show up with _that_ on his neck. Or the lipstick he was sure was smeared.

The clown had won. He’d managed to thwart Bruce from giving his attention to anyone else- and Bruce knew the Joker knew he won, by the grin that traveled all the way up to his eyes.

Bruce had no idea how he was going to live through this sordid love affair.


	17. Day 17: A Punch to the Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short, another return to some classic Batman/Joker dynamics.

_He hadn’t said it_ Bruce tried to convince himself as he pounded a fist into the clown’s belly. _He hadn’t said it_. He man gave a broken laugh as Bruce punched up into his ribs, feeling the air rush out of him.

Not tonight. Bruce wanted to pretend he hadn’t said it, not in the overly warm city dark with the sounds of sirens behind them and the remains of a few buildings smoldering. He should be _there_ , he should be helping the people- but what was the use when they were all likely dead? Any survivors had been removed by now, all that was left was the damned _body count_.

He grabbed the Joker by his jacket and lifted him, flinging him to the side o his body collided with a dumpster in the alley. The man groaned on impact, dissolving into giggles as he looked up at Bruce through his stringy, dirty curls, wet with sweat from the heat, from the fires, from the _excitement_. Before he could speak Bruce pulled loose a batarang and tossed it, the blade sticking into his shoulder and the momentum jerking him back. He stalked over and lifted him by his collar again, the rage building as he stared at that madly grinning face, those wild eyes, the was hi make-up was smearing and running from sweat. He smelled like salt and gasoline.

“I could _break_ you,” he said, in his voice of gravel, and the clown laughed.

“Oh oh oh, Batsy, you _could_. But the only way to permanently _break_ me is to break your rule!” He reached up, pulling the bloody batarang from his own shoulder, and let it clatter to the ground. “But for _meee_ , it’s easy to break you. Why, there are so many ways!”

“You can _never_ break me.” The Joker grinned, a sinister sort of insanity in those lips and the wide expanses of his teeth, the way his scars tugged tightly along his cheeks.

“Wanna bet, sugar?”

He moved faster than Bruce expected- he forgot so often that the madman was fast, and when he was scheming he was _faster_. He leaned up and smacked his mouth against Bruce’s, a wet _slap_ when lips touched lips. They slid too easily against Bruce’s, slippery from his lipstick, and Bruce clenched his jaw tightly, snarling into it as the man traced his tongue along his closed teeth.

He threw the Joker back a few moments later than he should of, only after the taste the salt of his sweat and the wax of his lipstick had seeped back past his teeth and onto his tongue. The Joker landed again against the dumpster, sliding down it to slump on the ground. He was laughing, howling fits that echoed into the heat night, and Bruce tried to tell himself _it didn’t happen_ and that the Joker _didn’t say it_.

“I did it all for you, cupcake,” he said, looking up, “All the chaos, all the death. It’s all for _you_ , so you can be _freeee_. It’s because I love ya, _Batsss_.”

_Because I love ya_. Bruce pretended he hadn’t said it, hadn’t heard it, it had never happened, like that sick sliding of lips. It hadn’t happened, it didn’t make his suit feel constricting over every muscle of his body, his skin hot to the touch. Wasn’t the reason for the sweat under his suit that stuck clung to him like a film.

He pulled the Joker up and punched him right in the face, splitting his lip and smearing that lipstick all over his gauntlet. And the man just _laughed_ , because Bruce would have to clean the reminders of his confession off him come morning.


	18. Day 18: Selfish

He looked so _sublime_ as he was, a mess of curls falling into his face, eyes shut, mouth slack. A rag doll of the highest quality, the perfect piece to build a collection around.

Bruce ran his gloved fingers along the Joker’s cheek- expensive leather gloves, not his unfeeling gauntlets. They came away oddly clean- his make-up hadn’t yet begun to lift from his face. Bruce smirked and straightened his jacket, before that hand went back and pushed a few curls back, traced down his jawline, his neck. He pressed his palm to the front of his throat, forcing the Joker’s head to fall back and squeezing gently, not enough to stop the man from breathing, but enough to remind Bruce he _could_.

It had been fairly easy to get him like this, drugged into a blacked out state and tied up in the cave. He simply had to go out as _Bruce_ and not Batman. The Joker hadn’t braced himself for that, hadn’t expected the party he had crashed- thrown by a business associate of Bruce’s- would turn on him. Bruce had simply dropped something into his _own_ drink and waited until the Joker was nearby. The man had been drawn to Bruce- and even if the clown didn’t know why, Bruce did, had counted on it- had taken his drink and swallowed it down and sneered at him, _so unknowing_.

All Bruce had had to do was wait, wait for him to get dizzy, to disappear because he couldn’t have the public seeing him like that. When he’d dropped, Bruce had been there to whisk him away, in the backseat of his Lamborghini.

Now, strapped up to a pole in the Batcave, _he was finally his_. Bruce leaned in, skimming just over his chest and shoulder, inhaling the scent of paint and gasoline and that faint sweetness that clung to his skin. He trailed his fingers along the buttons of his shirt, playing with them, but not opening them. No, not yet. He wans’t going to open his present before Christmas, he had to wait. Wait for those beautiful eyes to open and take him in.

There would be time, _plenty of time_ for all that Bruce wanted to do to him, all that Batman couldn’t- because Batman was incorruptible, beyond the needs of a base man. But Bruce- he was a slave to that aching desire between his legs, the greed in his chest. He could _embrace_ it.

And he’d have an eternity to do so.

The Joker groaned, but didn’t awake, and Bruce nudged his chin with his nose, feigning sweet affection for a chuckle. All he wanted was to _rip the man in half_ , to dive so deep into him that the Joker was nothing but a sobbing mess beneath his body. Take revenge for all those times the Joker had given him an empty, flirtatious gaze, for all the brief touches, the teasing and taunting. So much revenge Bruce would need _years_ to get even.

He grinned to himself, turning and walking over to his monitors. He looked at them, flipping through the various cameras on the property. All was quiet on the manor- Alfred was even sleeping. _It was perfect_. No one would disturb him.

He shrugged his black jacket off, left it on the chair, and carefully pulled his gloves off, leaving them on the counter. He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows as he walked back to the unconscious Joker, reaching up to trace one long, puckered scar. His mouth salivated, he wanted to suck until the skin gave way and opened up an ocean. But he resisted, had to wait. He was questioning if he had drugged the man too much- he didn’t want the night to go by without his fun at least _beginning_.

He pulled his hand back and began unbuttoning the Joker’s shirt, slowly, watching scarred, pale skin appear. He traced one long scar over his collarbone- rubbed it and coaxed a small moan from those slack lips. He chuckled to him, imagining the havoc he could wreak once the man was _awake_. Once he could take in who had him in his grasp.

He pulled the shirt open and was admiring the skin when the Joker stirred. Bruce looked up through thick, dark lashes, and saw those green eyes staring at him, unknowing for a moment, confused, before their life’s story began to cycle through them- seeing Bruce in the dark, cast in shadow, must have jarred the image of Batman for him, because his eyes widened, pupils turning tp pin pricks against his irises.

Bruce grinned and wanted to paralyze him like that- keep that look of shock and awe _forever_. He didn’t want to share the Joker, not anymore. Gotham had gotten her taste of the clown, and he was Bruce’s now- for the night, the year, _the rest of his life_.

Bruce’s grin bordered on mad as he grabbed a handful of green curls and calculated how much play time he’d have tonight, and how best to adjust the Joker to his new role as Bruce’s prized rag doll.


	19. Day 19: Old Fashioned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to Day 10, "Meet the Parents"

The Joker’s hands were fidgeting as he approached the familiar spot on Wayne Manor- the slabs of granite that meant he was in the presence of, according to Bruce, greatness. He stopped at a respectfully close distance, tiled his head and waited, as if he needed them to acknowledge him first- as if they _could_.

The evening was pleasant, warm. Early summer had been kind to Gotham so far, leaving her at the perfect temperature, with a warm breeze now and again. It breathed life into the city, color and movement and ever a night when Gotham slept.

It would have breathed life into the Joker, had he been willing to let the choas out. He would have loved to run along the rooftops of Gotham with his bad on his tail, to be slammed against a solid wall and see that sweat along the Bat’s jaw. He _would have_ -

But that was a different man.

“He’s doing a better job than I thought,” he said, stuffing his hands in his jean pockets. The material felt weird to him- he liked his fitted suits, but this was... _normal_. And he was trying so hard for that. “Domesticating me. Never would have put on these horrid things on my own.” He gestured to the tight fitting jeans, then chuckled. “You know, he’s kept me off the streets. Three months this time. Longest run yet.” He chuckled. “He’s been giving me this look lately- like he expects me to crack and have a relapse. Like he knows I’m planning something.”

One of the hands in his pocket moved over a small box, and he clicked his tongue. “He has no, ah, idea though. Not this time.” He pulled the small box out- solid and hard, but coated in a rich deep blue velvet. The pulled it open at the hinge with his one hand, stared at the small white-gold band inside, simple with a bite of inlaid weaving. “He thinks I’m going to go blow something up...not _this_.”

He turned the box, held it out, as if the graves had eyes and could take it in. He was smiling, a real smile, the kind that didn’t make his scars ache. “I don’t know how long it’ll last- whatever it is Bruce and I have. But...but I want to experience all of it, as far as we can take this before we break. When we break.” He sighed, left the rest unspoken, that he knew they would. Someday, somehow, it would eventually collapse. He could fall into the routine of normalcy for a while, as long as the Bat was content and the city slept, but someday, he’d need him- need him to be the chaos that Batman couldn’t embody without breaking, be the one thing to fill him so much sorrow by tearing away from him that he was grounded again.

Someday it would end, and the Joker knew this man he had become, this domestic shadow, would die for the final time. And then his chaos would fizzle out, he’d short circuit, and he’d go to. Someday-

But not today, or tomorrow. Not _yet_.

“So...I wanna ask,” he said, clearing his throat, turning the box back to himself, so he could look at the ring, “For your son’s hand...” He wanted to laugh at himself, talking to the dead as if they were alive, as if they could give him the excuse to be _happy_. As if he was in the wrong time era and he needed their permission to claim Bruce was exclusively his own.

A warm breeze picked up, rustled the lazy ponytail he had laying over one shoulder. Bruce liked his hair long, there was a joke there about having someone to hold onto- and the Joker let it grow because he liked what Bruce liked. He smiled as the warm air brushed along his scars, gave him an oddly warm feeling in his belly. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, closing the box and stuffing it back in his pocket. “Don’t worry, I won’t call you mom and dad.”

He heard Bruce in the distance, calling out to him. He tipped his head to the graves, than turned, running off towards him as he stood by his car, tapping his foot.

“We’re going to be late,” he said, eyeing the Joker. “Jack, we’ve got reservations at a nice restaurant- you’re wearing _jeans_?”

“You didn’t look into it very well,” he teased, kissing Bruce on his cheek. “It’s a new-age place. Your suit will stand out like my scars. Go change.” Bruce rolled his eyes, but agreed, kissing the Joker’s lips softly before turning. He was willing to give without a fight, loving that the Joker had taken to visiting his parents as he did.

The Joker slipped into the waiting car, smiling to himself, because Bruce had no idea just how important that little visit had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really _really_ wanted some fluff. And try as hard as I could to keep the Jack portion of the Joker out of this challenge, I really wanted to go with this idea and had to bring him in a little.  
>  I now keep wondering what a wedding would be like with these two...


	20. Day 20: This is Why I'll See You in Hell

There was blood pooling around his boots, mixing with the rain water so turn a stomach churning pink. Across the rubble of what once was Gotham General, the sky rained down buckets onto the remaining fires, the body parts strewn here and there, the splotches of thick red that told you there was _once_ somebody there.

Bruce was above it all, on what remained of the roof, having crashed down after the explosions. It wasn’t level, tilted slightly, so that a waterfall of pink rushed over the ledge to the mess below. When he moved, he was sure he felt it shifting under his weight.

Standing across from him, grinning madly, was the man who had caused this- hundreds of deaths in one calculated, silent move. _Silent_ , not like him. No flare, no threats, just an explosion in the middle of the night and now the world was short that many breaths. He was grinning with his arms around, letting the rain soak into his curls, drench him from head to toe.

“See Bats!” he called, “Isn’t it _lovely_ , how they rush about down there, trying to contain all of this? Trying to keep it from as many eyes as they can. Trying to, ah, _salvage_ the situation.” His laugh cut through the air like knives, gutted Bruce in a way that left him breathless, choking. “It’s simply _exquis-ite_.”

Bruce gritted his teeth, running towards the monster. The Joker let him, stood a perfect target for Bruce to wrap his arms around, shoulder down, knocking the wind from his lungs. He threw him up against a hunk of protruding debris, felt the impact of his shoulders crashing into the solid mass. Before the man could move, start laughing again, he grabbed him by his curls and smashed the back of his head into it, once, twice, three times, until his hair was sticky with blood, until his eyes were wide from the shock.

“So...rough...Bats,” he said, slowly, his mind cloudy, “Mmmm, but that’s how I, ah...like it.”

Bruce growled, gave a feral cry and threw him away, watched his body skid to a stop. He pounced on him just as he stopped moving, punched his gut, chest, shoulder. He aimed for his collar bone and the Joker screamed when Bruce felt bone crack beneath his fist. The sound was rich in the heavy, wet air, made Bruce press down against the body as if he had ripped the scream from his throat in more carnal ways.

“I hate you,” he growled, sinking his hand into the Joker’s hair and jerking his head up. Blood was dribbling down his chin, his lip not busted open from a precise punch to his jaw. He looked at Bruce with glossy eyes, but there was a giggle bubbling in his throat, Bruce could hear it at the tail end of his wheezing breaths.

“ _You love me_ ,” he corrected, smiling, his teeth stained pink and red. “You l-love that you can, ah, find such _release_ in me.” He tried to gesture with a hand, but the pain that shot through his collarbone made his arm drop like dead weight to his side. Bruce reached down and wrapped a hand around his throat, squeezing, and the grin only widened. “ _Do it Batsss_ ,” he nearly begged, “Find that sweet...release...”

Bruce squeezed, but then began to loosen his fist. The Joker growled, reached up despite the pain now, and wrapped his hand around Bruce’s wrist. “C’mon sugar, don’t _pussy out_ on me. Be a real man.” He tightened his grip on Bruce’s wrist, tilting his head so the whole of his throat was exposed. “You know you _want it_. It’s the, ah, only way you’ll ever let yourself _have me_. So take it, darling. _Take me_.” His eyes cleared for a moment, so bright, and Bruce wanted to crush them between his teeth, wanted to peel the flesh from this man , tear at the muscle beneath. He wanted to destroy him. He wanted to devour him.

_He wanted to become him_.

Bruce squeezed, and the Joker’s eyes rolled back, as if in euphoria. His breath wheezed out and he pressed up against Bruce’s body, rocked his hips in an obscene way that Bruce matched. “Tear me open when I’m g-gone,” the Joker forced out, “I’ll see you in hell for it- but it’ll be _so sweet_ , lampchop.”

Bruce squeezed tighter, cut off his words, felt the man’s muscles beneath him hard in _every_ place, and he hated him and wanted him and needed to end him in that very moment, for the deaths he’d caused, the pain, the shame on his city. For the way he made Bruce _want_ him, want to snuff him out and then lick up the ashes.

He squeezed until the body went limp beneath him, and then continued, until the hand at his wrist had fallen away and those eyes had closed, and a pool of pink water had collected around the Joker’s hair from the mess at the back of his head. He squeezed until he was groaning and his breath was huffing, rocking against the man beneath him, until a feral growl ripped from his throat and he stilled over the lifeless body, pulling his hands away in mock shock.

He couldn’t even fool himself into pretending that it hadn’t been the best feeling of his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, now that I've created a monster, I can go about my day.


	21. Day 21: Losing a Sense

To Bruce, the Joker’s eyes were a milky cloud, the green that once lit up like fireworks masked away, barely there. But for the man himself, there was just black, he couldn’t see the clouds, could only feel the heaviness, the ache in his sockets. He didn’t move from his spot in the corner of the room, sitting on the cold floor, barefoot and disheveled looking. Bruce watched him from behind his mask, the way his head moved with every small fidget of Bruce’s body.

“I can h-ear you,” he said, wrapping his arms around himself tighter, “ _Batsss_ , only you could, ah, stay _quiet_ so long.”

Bruce took a step towards him, then another, watching the way his thin legs scrambled against the floor, twitched. He’d lost weight- a lot of weight, since he was last brought in. Bruce was sure part of it had to do with the recent loss of his eyes, as he’d never seen the Joker this thin, and he’d seen him locked up in Arkham far longer. He crouched down, reached out and touched the exposed skin at one ankle. The Joker jerked back, caught off guard, and Bruce knew as much as the man talked, his ears had not yet been honed to the point of replacing his eyes.

“Joker,” he said, reaching for the other leg. When he touched the man didn’t jerk away this time, and he ran his hand up the slight curve of his calf, resting it there. The Joker’s head tilted the other way, and Bruce stared at the fading grin on his face- like his cheeks ached and he could barely hold it. His lips were pale, paler than they usually were without his lipstick, dry and chapped. He was a mess.

Bruce took his hand back, reached for the man. When the Joker didn’t move, he stood up, closed in, crouched back down over his thighs, tracing the contours of his jawline. The Joker let him, felt leather and the sharp edges of the suit’s gauntlets, could smell the stench of the city seeped into them. Bruce leaned closer, his other hand tracing up the man’s side, and despite that his sensible side was screaming at him not to fall into this trap again- to just look at the man and see how he had lost hus luster- he was pulling him closer, away from the corner. He wrapped one arm around him and pulled him into an embrace, his other arm winding around him and sinking into his matted hair.

Bruce felt the Joker’s bones shift as he moved, pressed closer to Bruce despite the harsh edges of his suit. The garish orange shirt Arkham had issues him hung far too loose, too thin, had stains along the bottom hem where he’d worried it with dirty hands. Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, felt the Joker exhale against his jaw, breathe in deeply.

“You smell like the city,” he whispered, and Bruce forced a small smile.

“What does that smell like?” The Joker tilted up, gently nudged his nose against Bruce’s chin, smiling ever-so-slightly.

“Wind,” he said, “Cold crisp air, gasoline, dirt and dust and a thousand different perfumes faded into one.” He nuzzled in, inhaled, “It rained, sometime recently.” He closed his broken eyes, welcomed the darkness this time, hummed almost silently as he smelt the faint warm, sweet scent that was cologne- a scent he’d never found on the Bat, always buried and washed away. It made him feel heated, despite his cell’s chill.

Bruce grasped him tightly and stood up carefully, dragging him to his feet. The Joker followed, letting Bruce lift his body, leaning against him, too weak to even support himself. Bruce was sure the man hadn’t eaten in days.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” he whispered, and the Joker looked towards his voice with unseeing, dead eyes.

“You, ah, put me here, lambchop.” Bruce grimaced, hating that it was true. But he couldn’t look past the man’s latest murder spree. Had he known...had he had any idea that they might try new medical treatments, untested- that they might damage him like this-

_You’d what? Leave him on the streets where he could kill more? No, you’d put him here because you’d never believe this could happen to him._

“Then I’m the best to get you out,” Bruce whispered, guiding the Joker over to his cot and settling him down onto it. The Joker reached for his cape, tugging on it and curling up into it as Bruce sat at the edge of the cot, not wanting to deny the man.

“No,” the Joker whispered, “No, _I’m_ the best to get me out.” He grinned, and Bruce cast his eyes away, unable to handle that stare any longer. “Besides Bats, what would you do with me? I guess you wouldn’t have to wear your cowl at least.” He gave a broken giggle. “No chance of me seeing your face _now_.”

Bruce frowned, and without thinking reached up and tugged on his cowl, pulling it back. He reached down and grabbed the Joker, pulling him roughly into a sitting position and took his hands, pressing them against his warm cheeks. His fingers flexed, the Joker’s lips parting, before his fingers worked over the map that was Bruce’s face, tracing his cheek bones, the bridge of his nose, his lips, back up along his eyebrows, until finally they swept back into his hair.

Bruce watched the way the Joker’s mouth showed his thoughts- something his eyes used to do. A subtle twitch to the corners, a small slip of his mouth.

“I bet you’re _beautiful_ ,” he said, rather awe struck, and Bruce didn’t say anything. “But you’ll _always_ be Bats now, darling. _Always_.” Bruce wasn’t sure why that made his stomach uneasy, something inside him hurt, but he ignored it. He laid the Joker back down and pulled his cowl back up, before unfastening his cape and leaving the Joker wrapped up in it.

He bent down and pressed his mouth to the man’s temple- not quite a kiss, just a connection, and the Joker’s eyes fluttered shut. He didn’t reach for Bruce when he left, but Bruce was fairly sure he didn’t have the energy for it.

As he walked through the hallways, to the hushed screams of the other patients, he tried to coax his mind into thinking what he was going to do, how he was going to get the Joker out, what he was going to do with him-

But he couldn’t. The majority of his mind was silent, because he knew, in reality, he’d never get the Joker out alive. Judging by the condition he was in, he’d probably be dead by morning.


	22. Day 22: One Good Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to day 9, "Dawn's First Light".

As the pink-gold rays of early morning fade to canary yellow, Bruce stands slowly. His body aches, his mind throbs, he wants almost nothing more than to curl up and sleep the daylight away-

The only thing he wants more is the man, still sitting, next to him. The blood on the Joker’s chin as dried, and in the fresh, crisp light, Bruce can see the many stains on his jacket, shirt, even spots on his pants. He hadn’t realized his fists had broken skin so many times that night. He stares, examines the purple blooming around the Joker’s red mouth, and the man turns to him, looks up and gives him a tired grin.

Bruce extends a hand, helps him up. He tries not to think about why he’d chased down the man last night, about the bodies hanging from street lights by the GCPD headquarters with horrific grins carved into their faces. Carved so deeply their skull nearly fell back away from their jaws. He couldn’t picture them properly now, not after those tranquil moments of watching Gotham wake up slowly, next to the Joker. The feeling of the man’s fingers clutching his are fresh in his hand still.

The Joker doesn’t speak, stays in close proximity to Bruce, staring up with those eyes, oddly still, darker, almost turquoise, as if they had drunk down the colors of the sunrise.

Bruce wants to ask him what now. Where is he going, does he need to go? Does he want to press that tired body against Bruce’s and simply _sleep_ until dusk, when they can be reborn again? Is he willing to give Bruce a truce, just one good day, before the chaos begins again.

As always, Bruce says none of these things, lets them swim in his head, stick in his throat until he can barely breathe. The Joker can see them, behind his dark eyes, and he chuckles softly, reaching up and brushing his fingers along Bruce’s jawline. They slip behind his head, pull Bruce closer, and for a heart stopping moment Bruce thinks he might kiss him, that the Joker might press those broken lips to his and all his _want_ , all his _need_ from moments ago will finally be allowed to breathe.

But their foreheads rest together and the Joker leaves that gap there, that teasing gap that Bruce curses and thanks at the same time. He stares into the Joker’s eyes until his own hurt, and they fall down, catching the curve of his red lips. His mouth opens, he’s going to say it, say something, tell him he’s beautiful- beautifully corrupt, but the Joker shakes his head gently, mouths _don’t_ but doesn’t say it.

Again, Bruce swallows the words. The Joker pulled back, moves his hand back to Bruce’s face, and traces the curve of his lower lip, smiling- a sad smile, the kind that only blooms after a long night, when daylight is their only witness and they both _know_ what they want, but they don’t give in. Bruce wonders why- what holds the Joker back? What keeps him from Bruce, after all his coy flirtatiousness, his touches- when he has his chance, why won’t he take it.

Bruce reaches up, takes his hand in his, pulls it away from his lips after allowing them to move in a kiss along the tips, and holds him steady. The Joker waits, he watches, and Bruce cannot handle those eyes and that mouth, knowing the man surely _must_ want something, too. He leans in, gently, pressing his mouth to the Joker’s, and for a second the world stops around him. He has no breath, no need for it- there is no building below him, no risen sun watching him, no sounds of the city. There is silence and a pleasant _lack_ of everything-

Until those lips move, slightly. Just enough for Bruce to realize that beneath the paint and the scars and the split, they’re silk, and a sound escapes him that the Joker swallows as he pulls away, not giving Bruce a chance to deepen his kiss, to taste him beyond a hint. Bruce wants more, but the Joker looks up at him through heavy blonde eye lashes and just shakes his head, taking his hand back. It drifts to Bruce’s chest, touches the bat symbol, then is gone, the Joker turning and walking away.

Bruce watches him go, screams silently for him to come back. Not now, don’t go now, when there is _time_ , when daylight can allow them to be someone else, _something else_ , when maybe he can touch the Joker and not rip and tear and bruise and break. Maybe he can touch and let it simply be that-

But the man is gone. Bruce realizes he’s not sure how, but it doesn’t matter. He sighed, his body feeling heavy again, and he has to entertain the idea that they will never have even just one good day. Nothing more than small moments can be spared for them.


	23. Day 22: Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mentions of rape. Only mentioned, though.

The Joker was twitching, nearly bouncing at his side, grinning wildly as Bruce lifted the man by the collar of his shirt. He was thrashing, but smirking at Bruce in a cocky way that made his stomach harden.

 

“Ya won’t do it,” he said, “I’m not afraid of ya.” Bruce gritted his teeth, lip twitching, and smashed him against the brick wall, the sick sound of his head colliding with it reverberated through the alley of the narrows. He was a rapist, the GCPD had been hunting him for weeks now. Raped and maimed these poor men and women and left them tormented, with only fragments of sanity. The last scene, it had escalated, and the three victims were found dead, mutilated while they were still alive- probably while he had still been having his way with them.

 

“Do it Batsss,” the Joker murmured next to him. He shouldn’t be here, it threw Bruce off- but he’d spotted him and had given chase, managed to subdue him, when he saw this man. He knew the Joker would always come back, he wanted this man in that moment, so he’d made a choice.

 

The Joker had made one as well, to follow him. The laugh as Bruce tackled him, gave him a hard punch to his jaw, and now here he stood, begging him to do the unthinkable.

 

But was it really so unthinkable?

 

Bruce smashed the man’s head against the brick again and his eyes rolled. He muttered something, clinging to consciousness, and the Joker frowned. He leaned in, placing his hands on Bruce’s bicep and shoulder, his breath puffing against his cheek.

 

“He’ll get away,” he whispered, “He’ll get a good defense and he’ll sit in Arkham. No one who makes an, ah, _mess_ like that ever claims they’re _sane_. And he’ll get _out_ \- you know how easy it is to get out of Arkham.” He giggled, leaning closer, nudging his nose against Bruce’s jawline. “Just do it, just this once. End the little cunt’s life and _play my game_.”

 

Bruce darted his eyes over to him. He hated that the Joker was right- but he _was_. This man would find some plea of insanity and wouldn’t be punished for these atrocities- there would be no _justice_.

 

“No,” he said, “This isn’t justice.” The Joker laughed then, pulling up closer so his body molded to Bruce’s side. Bruce shivered, hating himself for it, but he was still worked up from the chase and those red lips were _so close_.

 

“There is no _justice_ ,” he whispered, “There is only _retribution_.” His tongue darted out, traced Bruce’s jawline, and Bruce moaned softly, hating himself for it. “C’mon baby, give it a try. You’ll like it- you liked _me_ with only one taste, after all.” The Joker giggled, and Bruce could still feel his breath, the way his hands fluttered along the suit, the slight rocking of his body against him. He wanted to get this monster locked up so he could go back to chasing _his_ monster. But he’d have to wait for Gordon, and the Joker would surely be gone by then-

 

_No_. He ground his teeth together, angry he’d even consider it for a second. But then one of the Joker’s hands slid beneath his cape, down his back, over the curve of his ass, and the man gave a little mewl.

 

“Impress me, big boy,” he whispered, “maybe we can do something _special_ then. Maybe you’d like _me_ to take control for the night.” His hand traveled back up and he nipped at the little bit of skin exposed along Bruce’s jaw. Bruce felt his heart quickening, and his hands were around the man’s throat suddenly, and not his shirt. His eyes were foggy from the hit, and he was still muttering something. Something about how it was _wonderful_ to have an audience while he killed them-

 

Bruce growled and squeezed, and the Joker cooed and rocked his hips against his thigh harder. “C’mon c’mon _c’mon_ ,” he huffed, panting, and Bruce wondered for a minute if he was getting off to this. The idea made him shiver with _need_.

 

He looked into the man’s eyes and squeezed harder, felt muscle tighten beneath his fists. Eyes widened, and Bruce jerked his wrists, snapping his neck so his body went limp. Next to him the Joker moaned his appreciation, smacking his ass, before darting back and yelling at Bruce to _come get him_.

 

Bruce dropped the body in a heap and turned, watching the Joker disappear, and tried to tell himself it was a necessary sacrifice, for Gotham. That he had to change the rules in order to keep everyone safe-

 

He knew it wasn’t. He knew he’d just given up everything he was because he wanted to get closer to the clown. He’d sacrifice the city to have those pale legs around his waist- and he hated himself more for it.


	24. Day 24: Rumors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the story line last seen on day 15.

Bruce flipped the case of his tablet closed and shoved it away, unable to read anymore. He drummed his fingers on his desk, heard the faint noises of Wayne Enterprises running around him through the thick walls of his office. He fidgeted, before finally looking at the man sitting opposite him.

The Joker was inspecting his nails, freshly painted a deep purple, for what reason Bruce didn’t know. Bruce stopped questioning those things, the minor details that transgressed usual behavior. It was the bloody Joker, after all.

“This is going to ruin me,” he muttered, and the Joker looked up with his brilliant eyes and smiled.

“Oh Brucie, _re-lax_. You’re too, ah, tense. Maybe I can help with that.” He moved to get up and Bruce glared daggers at him. He immediately settled back down.

“I can only make so many fucking statements before everyone realizes I’m lying through my teeth.” In fact, Bruce was pretty sure they were at that point already. The latest report of him being seen with the Joker was far from the first. He’d made so many statements about the clown stalking him, threatening him, and each one convinced less and less people. Bruce wasn’t even sure it was worth it anymore.

“So stop _lying_ ,” the Joker said, back to fiddling with his nails. “What’s the harm in admitting that big bad Bruce Wayne is having fun with Gotham’s Most Wanted?” the Joker chuckled. “I’m not even very _wanted_ anymore, I spend all my time, ah, chasing you.” He was right, Bruce knew- the only chaos he’d caused recently was in Bruce’s bedroom.

“That’s not all of it,” Bruce said, sighing, and the Joker leaned out, resting his elbows on the desk and watching Bruce.

“What else is there-“ he stopped, narrowing his eyes, clicking his tongue. “Bruce...you don’t want them to know because I’m a _man_. That’s a big part, isn’t it?”

Bruce said nothing, just looked away. It was fifty-fifty, really. He couldn’t be seen with a criminal- or with a man. He had a persona built up, Gotham’s favorite playboy, who had _never_ courted men before. The idea that he might be...gay, or bisexual, it just wouldn’t work.

The Joker pushed himself up, stalking around the desk. He slipped between it and Bruce, climbing up onto his chair and straddling him while Bruce made a shocked, broken sort of sound. The Joker’s hands delved into his hair, held his head still so he had to _look_ at him.

“It shouldn’t _matter_ , Brucie,” he whispered, “The city doesn’t get a say in who shares your bed. That’s all on you. Let them eat up the scandal, let them talk, they’ll stop eventually. _I’ve been good_ , just for you. I deserve a little reward.” He leaned down, kissed Bruce- gently, there was no teeth, no tongue, just a movement of lips that was soothing. Bruce wrapped his arms around him, stroked up along his back, and the Joker made a small content sound against his lips.

Bruce rolled the words over in his head, wondering if there was some truth there, some wisdom. Why _did_ it matter so much to him how Gotham saw him? This wasn’t a threat to his identity as Batman- no, the city wouldn’t put that together from this. And the Joker was right- he had been behaving. Rather well. Bruce couldn’t have an reservations or remorse on that-

So it all boiled down to the fact that this questioned his sexuality- for the first time in his life. A part of him he had never questioned, that he used to build up his public persona. It _was_ a bit terrifying-

But was it terrifying enough to give up the man in his arms?

The Joker leaned back, smiling at him with slightly smudged lipstick. He reached up and rubbed it off Bruce’s lower lip, smiling. Not a maniacal smile, but a real, rather sweet smile. The kind that Bruce had to return.

“I can put a dress on, if it’ll help,” the Joker teased, rocking his hips gently against Bruce in a teasing, sensual way. “But they still won’t like what they find _underneath_.” He winked and Bruce laughed, sinking his hands into his curls and kissing him quickly.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said, but he was smiling. He leaned his forehead against the Joker’s, and decided the man was _right_ \- the city didn’t get a say who he let into his bed-

Or his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My old obsession with feminine men is showing just a bit...


	25. Day 25: One Wins, but the Other Loses

Bruce pressed him down into the coarse sheets, fitting perfectly against the curve of the Joker’s lower back and ass. The man squirmed and groaned, pushing back against him to deepen Bruce’s thrust, making the vigilante see stars momentarily. The Joker giggled, clenched his muscles, and Bruce gasped, dropping his head and biting at the back of his neck until the man cried out.

“Stop it,” Bruce warned, “or this won’t last very long.”

The Joker kept giggling, pushing back against Bruce and moaning out to him, calling him “Brucie baby” and “Batsy _daaarling_ ”, his body so eager. Bruce tried to resist, but each thrust back made him drive in harder, made him want the sweet release that was promised. He thought for a moment to pull away, to pin the clown down and reclaim his rhythm, but he was too far gone, gritting his teeth as he fucked into the Joker’s body so hard the Joker momentarily lost his control and started crying out to Bruce in a broken voice.

Bruce nearly screamed when he came, pressing the Joker so tightly to the mattress it was hard to breathe. The Joker didn’t buck him off though, he writhed around, the feeling of his insides becoming _hot_ making him gasp. Then Bruce was pulling out, grabbing him and roughly flipping him over. He glared up at the clown as he reached for his erection and stroked him.

“You did that on purpose,” Bruce said, and the Joker’s giggles turned into a gasp. “You just wanted me to do _this_.” Bruce bent his head, ran his tongue up the underside of the Joker’s cock, and the clown groaned, tipping his head back.

“Caught me red h-handed, _Batsss_.” He moaned as Bruce swallowed him down, tilting his head back down to stare through his blonde lashes. Bruce hated him in that moment, wanted to split his red lips, leave him desperate and unsatisfied. He did this to Bruce simply so he could _see_ him give in, so he could see how far the man had broken. So Bruce was forced to face it.

He growled as he swallowed him deeper, fingers digging into his hips with bruising force. The dull ache seemed to spur the Joker on more, to Bruce’s dismay. He buried his hands in Bruce’s hair and bucked his hips, hissing Bruce’s name as he came in his mouth. Bruce swallowed, forced to taste the bitterness of his utter defeat to the Joker and his witching ways.


	26. Day 26: Therapeutic

Bruce looked down at the half dressed man in his bed, his head slumped against Bruce’s thigh, eyes closed as he breathed calmly in sleep. The blanket was tangled around his legs, giving Bruce a moment to trace up his pale thighs, over his hips and ass, clad only in his dark boxer briefs, and up into the purple mess that his open shirt was around his torso.

Bruce looked back at the book he was holding for a second, before he reached down, stroking between the man’s shoulder blades. He made a little pleased noise in his sleep, shifting closer, and Bruce smiled, continuing the affectionate small touch as he scanned over the page. Part of him was sure he should not be in bed but in the cave, suiting up for the night, but the bed had been warm and the company an oddly soothing touch. Besides, if the Joker was in here, there was little mayhem Gotham would go through tonight that the GCPD couldn’t handle.

He pulled his hand back just to turn the page, then returned to stroking the sleeping man. He liked the heat of his body, so close, the feeling of his curls against his thigh, the little noises he made despite his slumber. It was completely unlike the Joker, this creature sleeping now, as if he slipped away to dreams and the chaos seeped out of him.

Bruce stroked his curls, loved the soft feeling underneath his finger tips. It was therapeutic, touching him like this, allowing himself to be affectionate to a creature that couldn’t hurt anyone or anything in that brief moment. Allowing himself to pretend that this wasn’t a homicidal maniac, just a man in his bed who made his heart hammer to the point of danger in his chest. He was just the man Bruce loved, nothing more, nothing less.

The Joker stirred and Bruce pulled his hand back, turning the page of his book. He pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep from his naked eyes- his lack of make-up furthered Bruce’s private idea that this could be _normal_ \- and looked up at Bruce.

“Shouldn’t you be, ah-“ he was cut off by a yawn, “in your little cave, Batsy?”

“Depends. Are you going back to sleep?” The Joker shrugged a shoulder.

“Probably.” Bruce smiled, closing his book for a moment in his lap and leaning over, pressing a kiss to the man’s temple.

“Then I think I’ll stay right here,” he said with a smile. The Joker drank it in, smiled back, and settled back into Bruce’s lap, closing his eyes.

Bruce could afford one night of fantasy, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted a little fluff. Just a little :)


	27. Day 27: The End of the Joker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completion of the story we saw unfold on days 10 & 19.
> 
> Also, let's just ignore that I left this challenge dormant for 16 months when I only had _four days left_. Trust me, I'm very angry with myself about that.

Jack shifted nervously, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. Outside the Manor, there was life to the grounds. People- not many, but enough. More then he was used to these days. There were smiles, laughter-

There was anticipation.

He pulled at his tie, adjusted his white jacket, shifting from foot to foot. His face seemed so strange to him, make-upless. It wasn’t the first time, wasn’t the last time, but it didn’t cease to be strange. And yet, not unwanted.

He glanced at the closed door to the room, then quietly made his way to it, cracking it open and glancing around the hallway. Empty. Taking a breath, he slipped out, moving as quietly as possible through hallways he had learned some time ago. Once outside, it was impossible to not be seen, by Bruce’s business partners, associates. They joked about the _bride_ being seen before the ceremony, and he only laughed, said he needed a minute before the show started.

Once he was finally away from them, he made his way across the Manor, towards what was now a very familiar setting, the rise of two solid headstones, names he knew not only by sight but by their weight on his tongue as well.

“Sorry you’re going to miss the ceremony,” he offered up, not entirely sure what he was even doing here. He needed to be back at the house, ready to walk down a pretty little aisle, right up to his waiting husband-to-be. Right up to the man who had completely ended him.

And helped create who he was, in that moment.

“I know you’re probably not who I should, ah, be going to for nerves but...well. It’s not like _I_ have family.” He tugged at his collar gently. “Just. Ya know, when I asked Bruce to marry me, I wasn’t really thinking about what I was getting into. Wasn’t thinking about all this.” He waved his hand, off at the Manor. “Yeah, I’ve been seen in public with him. Yeah, I’ve been in the inner social circle now. But...well. I don’t know. I guess _brides_ don’t need a reason to get cold feet.” He sighed, glancing away from the headstones that had become his audience more frequently as of late, up at the clear sky.

It was true, though. He didn’t have a reason for being terrified, that he could put a name to. He was _happy_ , for once. A kind of acceptable happiness. Sure, the media was still ready to write those nasty columns and articles on him, waiting for him to _crack_ , but that was expected. Gotham wouldn’t just forget who or what he was, what he did.

What he hadn’t expected, though, was to forget so easily himself.

“I told you, the first time we met,” he offered up, “that I didn’t know how long this would last. That it wasn’t forever. Someday I’d go back. I said it when I asked...if I could marry your son. But now,” he stopped, exhaled, felt a shiver racing up his spine. “I don’t even know who I am...or was. I feel completely separate from that man.” He swallowed, felt his throat closing. “Like he’s...dead.”

And it was true, Jack knew it. The Joker was dead, or as good as dead, to the world. Whatever he had with Bruce, each day it out weighed his desire to return to the Gotham skyline. Each domestic moment, from mornings of stealing Bruce’s orange juice and sipping directly where his lips had been on the glass, to those evenings stretched out on the couch, his legs resting over Bruce’s lap. Each little moment seemed to replace a memory he had of _the Bat_ , until it felt like everything had always been as it was now.

“I’m terrified of dying,” he finally whispered, “I’m terrified of the end of the Joker. To let those last few strings go. Without him...who am I? Who is Jack?” He raked a hand back through his curls, could hear music picking up back towards the house. He needed to go, he knew, but he couldn’t make his feet move. “Bruce fell in love with the Joker. What if without him, I don’t measure up?”

And there it was, that pinprick at the base of his neck, like a needle sliding into skin, between vertebrae. It was a dual fear- the fear of losing something of himself and never knowing his own reflection, and the fear that by losing the Joker, he lost what Bruce had fallen in love with.

He glanced at the stones, before finally tearing himself away, heading back to the house. He was barely around the corner when Alfred appeared, grabbing his hand and guiding him, smiling at him. “Good of you to show for your own wedding,” he teased, and Jack gave him a nervous smile.

They had walked through it before- neither had been entirely sure how to go about it. Did neither of them walk down the aisle? Did they both? Jack didn’t have family to give him away, and all Bruce had was Alfred-

They had settled, after much back and forth, and Jack almost wanted to scrap the idea of a ceremony _altogether_ , of walking down together. And as Jack was guided around the house, away from prying eyes, he wasn’t sure he would even be able to walk if Bruce held him up.

His thought stopped when he saw Bruce, hands in his pockets, watching as Alfred brought him around. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen Bruce in a suit before- he had convinced him _against_ a tux, actually, and was glad Bruce had followed his lead on it- but somehow, now, it seemed to knock the breath from Jack. And when he smiled, it seemed to go all the way up to those pretty eyes.

Jack felt his heart skip three beats.

“There you are,” he said, reaching out and gently taking Jack’s arm from Alfred. “For a minute I was wondering if you’d gone _Runaway Bride_ on me.” Jack shook his head, slowly, still staring at him. “Where were you?”

“Just needed to...say hi to some friends,” he forced, swallowing. Bruce gave him another smile, squeezing his arm, and Jack kept looking at those eyes, at the way _they_ were looking at him.

“You ready?” Bruce whispered, letting his hand slide down Jack’s arm, to grasp his own. The man nodded, slowly, suddenly the lead in his belly from fear dissipating, replaced by butterflies. Gone because with the way Bruce was looking at him in that moment, he felt as if he was the very center of the world, of their whole _galaxy_.

The way Bruce was looking at him, he was so in love with the man standing there, clasping his hand, that there was no room for any shades of his past, his former self. Jack thought that maybe, maybe it was okay to let the Joker end, to let him die silently, forgotten to the past, to Gotham’s shadows. Maybe it was okay, and he could still know himself without that part of him living still.

Maybe Bruce could love him without it, too.

And maybe, just maybe, he realized, as they began their slow walk, Jack feelings Bruce squeezing his fingers every few steps, maybe this didn’t have to be temporary. Maybe what they had, well- maybe they could make it last.


	28. Day 28: Outsider's Point of View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation from Day 12, "Children".

They’re stupidly sweet, and Damian could almost be sick over it. In the morning, if breakfast is a family affair- which Bruce tries to make it more and more each day- the Joker always seems to have his hand on Bruce’s arm, fingers playing with his cufflinks, or even leaning into his space, openly kissing his cheek, toying with his hair.

And Bruce, well, he lets it happen, seems to enjoy it. More often the not, Damian scoffs at it, wishing more and more he could take his breakfast elsewhere- or simply wait until his father has left. Sometimes he takes the Joker with him. Sometimes he doesn’t.

And the Joker- _Jack_ Damian has to remind himself- when he stays, he tries to be so _domestic_ with Damian. Wants to watch a movie with him. Ask him what he’s reading. Damian always asks him instead if he’d like to spar- and he hasn’t always been turned down. But lately it seems, more often then not, when Jack asks him, they end up on the couch with the television on, and it’s abhorrently _normal_.

And at night! They’re always cuddling, Damian notices, always tangled together on the couch. His father might talk about his day, something going on in the city- and Jack comments, talks about whatever _he did_ all day. Damian tries to avoid it. Tried, at least.

No one could really explain to him how he ended up in the mess, on the couch with them. It’s cold outside, there’s snow covering the grounds around the manor, and there’s a blanket over all of them. Jack leaned against Bruce, into him, the other man having one arm wrapped around the lithe man. And against Jack Damian laid, curled up, yawning because it was late- _when did it get so late_ \- because he was snug under that blanket, because Jack was stroking back his hair.

The glow from the television was fading, not that he had paid much attention to it. He sighed, heard his father ask, “is he sleeping?”

“Almost,” Jack whispered, those long fingers stroking his hair back again. Fingers he had wanted to break, the first time he realized the man was in his home, in his father’s home. He’d wanted to break his father’s, as well, when he realized Bruce was _allowing_ the man to be there.

And sure, he had done plenty over Jack’s stay with them that perhaps weren’t the _nicest_ \- yes, he’d tried to drug him. Had told his father he was only going to play a harmless prank- not that either bought it, he was sure. Damian was above that. There had been others, plenty, but recently- Damian realized, tugging the blanket up around his chin, he hadn’t tried anything as of late.

Hadn’t he even at breakfast thought it was sort of cute, the way Jack liked the hold his father’s hand while they sat there?

Didn’t he admit, later on, while sitting with the man, at least to himself, that he did have pretty eyes?

He yawned again, this time feeling sleep crawling in along his eyelids, letting them fall closed, his breathing slowly.

“Now he’s asleep,” Jack whispered, as Bruce got up from the couch. He leaned down, scooping Damian up, who was vaguely aware of it, as Jack clicked the television off and followed them through the dark, upstairs. Time sort of swam then, until he was being tucked into his bed, shifting and clutching at his pillow as Bruce took Jack’s hand, leading him out of the room.

Yes, stupidly, sickeningly sweet. But a sweet that Damian was getting a taste for, if he was honest in his near sleeping state. Maybe he wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, maybe not for a long time- but Jack was alright. His father’s affection for him was alright.

It just had to grow on you.


	29. Day 29: Love to Hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A final return to some classic Batjokes before the end <3

Bruce doesn’t understand how the clown is still laughing, or even _breathing_. His fist connects with his jaw for the countless time, his mouth a mess of lipstick and blood. It’s smeared on his cheeks, dribbled down his chin, onto his tie, his waist coat. Another punch to the ribs and the air is out of his lungs, his giggles turning into a cough.

And yet he still stands. He looks the better part of a torn ragdoll, his hair is stringy, the curls damp, sticking to his forehead, the nape of his neck. There are crease in his grease paint where it has worn away, skin showing through. One eye has finger streaks dragging the black makeup down one scarred cheek, from where Bruce had tried to grab him.

He’s an atrocity.

And yet Bruce can’t put him down.

He’s laughing again, breathy, gasps at the end. He’s in pain, Bruce can tell. He _has_ to be. He’s got to have a broken rib, if not two. He’s got to have every muscle in his shoulders tense. His torso must be black and blue, come dawn. His face, the same. He’s probably swallowed more blood then spit.

Bruce is panting, his breaths nearly as rapid as the clown’s. He’s taken his fair share of hits- there’s a nasty knife wound in his calf. He’ll need stitches. But he doesn’t care, can’t care.

Because he loves it, down in his core. He loves that the Joker continues to get up, to take his hits and ask sweetly for more, that he dishes them out as well. That Bruce always wakes up the next day knowing who he danced with. He’s got the scars to prove it. Each kiss of the knife leaving something for him to run his own fingers over when he’s alone, memories to pull from the dregs of his body on those nights when there is no clown, there is only a quiet, sleeping city.

“Stuck in your head, _Bats_?” Bruce stares at the clown, the way he’s grinning now. There’s blood on his teeth, in the cracks. It’s hideous, it’s beautiful, it’s enough to make him sick and yet he can’t look away. He won’t. He wants to lick them clean, to let his tongue trace the wounds in his mouth, each break in cheek and lip. He wants it all. He needs it, because this is the only time Bruce is even sure he’s truly alive, he’s truly breathing. He’s even _real_.

The Joker walked towards him, slowly, his steps precise but Bruce is sure painful. Each breath should hurt. And Bruce prays it does, needs this man’s pain. It erases his own, not the physical , but everything else that has welled up inside him. The internal hate, the pain of a boy alone in an alleyway who never recovered, the ache the city itself has as it crumbles in around itself. The Joker gives him a way to express that, a target. Something tangible.

When he’s within arms reach, Bruce grows tense. He’s ready for the man to lurch at him, to try to shove a knife through his suit, up into his ribs. He’s ready- but that never comes. Instead the man moves into his space, pressed his hands along Bruce’s sides, grinning up at him.

This isn’t new, either. The urge to lick the blood from his teeth realized, manifested as the Joker leaned up, Bruce let him kiss him. He tasted like blood, thick copper and tangy salt. Bruce licks it from his mouth, lets his own arms wrap around the deranged man, holding him close.

It’s when the bloody taste fades that the love turns to hate. It’s in that moment that Bruce can hate what he has done to this man, each nick to his person, each bruise to his soul. It’s in that small space of time, when the Joker kisses him, kisses him like he knows exactly why Bruce has to utterly destroy him every night he can, like he knows exactly what the shadows behind Bruce’s eyes look like.

Bruce hates it because this man is willing to give into him entirely. Willing to take every hit with a _laugh_ , because he sees something inside Bruce that Bruce would rather not even see. He sees past the mask, past the man, sees the monster and the shadows that hold it firm.

“We’ll have to, ah, do this again sometime,” the Joker teases against Bruce’s mouth, which is now scarlet, lipstick and blood coating his lips, smeared off to one side. “I do so love our little dates, Batsy.”

Bruce says nothing, he simply gripped onto the Joker’s jacket, held him close. He almost wants to apologize. He almost wants to ask the clown to forgive him, for it all. For needing him to be this. Maybe if he didn’t...maybe the man would be something else entirely. Maybe he wouldn’t be so hell bent on helping Gotham crumble, if Bruce simply didn’t _need him_.

The words are there, on his tongue, and as if he can see them, the Joker is clicking his tongue, frowning. “Now Bats,” he whispers, the song falling from his voice. It’s deep, almost husky. It’s raw. “Don’t go all sentimental on me, sugar. Don’t ruin the good thing we got goin’.” He reached up, taps Bruce’s cowl with his gloved hand. “It _is_ a good thing, lambchop. What we got here. It’s, ah, mutually beneficial.” He grins, and Bruce can only wonder how much that grin _hurts_.

What does he get out of it? What does the Joker walk away with?

As if inside his head- and god, does that terrify Bruce- the Joker’s grin fades, gently. “I get your attention, sugar,” he breathes, smiling, “I getcha all to myself for a night. Why, what more could a guy like me ask for?” The smile has faded though, the characteristic grin gone. In the chilled night, in that moment, he’d just a man in paint and blood with tired eyes.

And Bruce wonders if he can take much more of this.

And Bruce knows that neither of them truly can. They can’t go on forever. There has to be an end.

And that’s it, that’s the moment when all the love he has for hurting the Joker turns into hate.


	30. Day 30: Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, to end the challenge, the conclusion of the story we saw on days 6, 8, 15, & 24.

“Just a minute of your time, Mr. Wayne.” Jim Gordon was standing in his office, Bruce’s secretary having escorted him in, fleeing rather quickly herself. Bruce looked up from his laptop, before leaning back in his chair, gesturing to the chair opposite his own. Gordon settled down, and Bruce opened the button of his suit jacket, needing to take a deep breath.

“What can I help you with?” Not that he really need to _ask_. He was ninety percent sure this had to do with-

“The Joker,” Gordon stared, and Bruce tried to keep a straight face.

“What about him?”

“Well, Mr. Wayne... if I follow the media correctly, you’ve had a lot of...rather personal dealings with him, as of recent.” Bruce folded his hands in his lap, but otherwise did not acknowledge anything Jim said. “I’m just looking for a few pieces of information.”

“So you’re buying into the same shit the rest of Gotham is? That somehow, I’ve decided that the Joker is, in fact, my ideal partner?” Bruce laughed, forced around the edges. “Gordon, have you seen the women I’ve dated?”

“Some, Mr. Wayne. And I’m not saying where I stand on either side of this story. I’m just asking, if you can give me two pieces of information. And if you can’t, then yous imply can’t.” Jim cleared his throat. “I just want to know where he is, and if this quiet streak of his is going to last.”

Bruce stared at Jim for a minute. He trusted Gordon, he truly did- and when he was in his cowl, Gordon was his _friend_. But here, he felt as if he was the enemy, even though Jim’s tone had remained neutral and even.

“I’m not looking for him,” Jim finally added, “and frankly, if he’s going to leave my city alone, I don’t care for the reasons, or even where he is. I would love to see him rot in Arkham for all he’s done- but we’ve seen that doesn’t work. If there was something...else that did, I could be open to it. I could be open to making sure there was nothing in the way.”

Bruce pursed his lips, taking in the meaning behind Jim’s words. The two looked at each other for a minute, before Gordon shifted, standing up- seeming to believe Bruce was going to give him nothing.

“He’s out of harm’s way,” Bruce finally said, “Sometimes. He comes and goes as he pleases. But the quiet streak will last as long as he’s entertained.” Bruce kept a nuetral expression, and Gordon nodded, slowly.

“I don’t know what you see in him,” Jim admitted, “and I don’t think I want to know. But if Batman hasn’t intervened yet, I’m going to trust his judgement. Like I said- all I care about is that he leaves my city alone.”

Bruce watched Jim go, waited until his door was closed to reach up, pinch the bridge of his nose, a headache coming on. There really was no use denying the rumors anymore- in fact, publically he had stopped. He’d simply begun to ignore them.

Sooner or later, though, he’d either have to go public, or break things off. And he didn’t know which, if he was honest with himself.

In fact, thoughts like that had been louder then ever, as of recent. Maybe because he couldn’t _deny_ the affair any longer. Maybe because it was really sinking in that the absolute worst thing Gotham had ever birthed was sharing his bed most nights. Maybe because, if he was honest, it was becoming normal, to have the Joker around.

The Manor was quiet when he walked in. Bruce wondered where Alfred could be, but assumed he had to be about somewhere, and headed up towards his bedroom. By the time he was walking in, flicking on the lights, he had his suit jacket open, his tie undone.

He paused before he could pull it from his neck, however.

Because a pair of far too-green eyes were staring right back at him.

“You work too late,” the Joker whined, reclining back into the pillows on Bruce’s bed. His makeup was _different_ tonight, his lips a plump cherry red, without the color dragging up along his scars. His eyes smokey, his skin not covered in grease paint. Even his hair was different, his curls thick, as if he had taken the time to _style_ them.

Bruce stared, openly. The Joker had left his suit behind, was reclining in a small black dress, one of the thin straps falling off a single, pale shoulder. There were even matching heels on his feet. And in one hand, a tall glass filled with pink champagne.

“I was going to wait until you came _home_ , sugar. But you see, it was getting late and I couldn’t resist another minute.” He winked, taking a little sip. Bruce stared, watched the movement, before the Joker lifted his free hand, curling his finger and beckoning Bruce closer. Bruce walked arund the bed, and the Joker set his glass aside, reaching up to grab the ends of Bruce’s tie in his hand, pulling him close. “So, will you take me out to the city if I look like _this_ , dollface? Or am I doomed to another night locked away in my tower?”

Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat, before he closed the gap, pressing his mouth to the Joker. He tasted like strawberry champagne, and Bruce wondered if this was similar to their first kiss- when he had drunk too much and the clown had just _looked_ at him the right way.

Were they coming full circle?

The Joker moaned softly, arching up into the kiss, and Bruce planted his hands on the bed, steadying himself. His lover’s hands were winding the ends of his tie around his fingers, keeping a firm hold. Bruce couldn’t get away if he wanted to.

Which, in that moment, he knew was the almost truth. He could never get away now, even if he wanted to. He’d opened a door an the Joker had made sure to remove the hinges, change the locks. Never again would it be closed.

And suddenly, his decision was made for him- whether to end this whole ordeal, or to simply take the man out in the open and _live his life_.

“Mmmm, maybe, on second thought,” the Joker whispered, gently licking Bruce’s bottom lip, “I don’t want to go out. Maybe I want to stay _right here_.”

Bruce couldn’t argue at all. There was always tomorrow, or the next night. Endless nights after that, until this ran it’s course, or they faded into the years. Either would work, if he was honest.

And those were his last coherent thoughts, before he had a strawberry flavored lip between his teeth, and pretty Joker releasing his hold on his tie to reach up and wrap his arms around his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole challenge was one wild ride. What a blast!

**Author's Note:**

> So, I really wanted a "first" that was a bit different, something that wasn't first kiss, first fuck, first time without the mask, etc. I also decided part way through, when I realized there was no _real_ dialogue that I really wanted to keep it like that.


End file.
